What Lies Beneath
by jacklynlew
Summary: Feyre is trapped serving a despised King due to her strange magic. Possessing rare powers of his own, the foreign Prince Rhysand promises her freedom; if only she leaves her old life behind. But as Feyre struggles in her role in Rhysand's world, a devastating secret threatens to tear them apart. AU, Canon Feysand. Rated M for lemons.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N A peek of my first official A Court of Thorns and Roses story. Currently unbeta-ed because I couldn't wait to post it. Anyways, hope you guys like it :)**

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"Do you really have to go?" Nesta asked as she swept a brush through Feyre's hair.

"For the last time, yes. The King insisted that I be there."

"I'm sure he did. Doesn't mean you have to listen to him."

Feyre remained silent, instead choosing to ignore Nesta's foul mood to fix her own hair in the mirror.

"And why wouldn't the King ask Feyre to dinner? She is his royal ward after all," Elain added, the youngest of them doing her best to appease Nesta's hard tone.

Feyre gave her a soft smile to their gentle sister. But fixing her eyes on her own features, she saw her gold brown hair; cold blue eyes that Nesta insisted she inherited from their mother. A straight nose that she liked to think accented her full lips.

These were all rather boring features she was given at birth. But also for some reason, granted either by the Gods or hell itself, Feyre was also given a million other faces with it.

Because Feyre was a siren: a magical shape shifter that could mold face and body to anything she liked.

And in their world, well, that was more than rare. One-of-a-kind even, to be able to change one's appearance to what they pleased. And to the King's knowledge, and the rest of the worlds', she was the last of them.

"It's not like Feyre is integral to the actual dinner," Nesta muttered, "The King just wants you to make _his_ job easier. That was why he had taken us all, only to gain Feyre as a prize."

"Why do you always want to argue?" Elain sighed.

"I'll stop arguing when Feyre decides to stop working for such a foul man." Nesta said, coming behind Feyre to tug on her hair. She dropped her hands with a sigh to find her sisters eyes on her.

"Pray tell, Nesta how would you have me provide for us, if not by working for the King? He has been good to us," she said.

"Anything," Nest sighed, "Elain and I could get jobs if you allowed us to. You could even provide by selling your art work."

"I will let you keep dreaming, then, Nesta. My work with the King provides us more than well enough. No fantasies needed."

"You used to dream more than anyone. That was what kept up hope while we were in the slums," Elain finally spoke, turning to brush her own hair; ever more soft and controllable than hers. But Feyre turned her eyes away before jealousy could bloom.

How Feyre wished to be so innocent and fair as Elain. Or strong and fierce as Nesta. Instead, Feyre had been cursed with magic that made her nothing but complacent to its whims.

"I don't miss the slums, but I do miss the simplicity." Nesta said a bit softer, "There you did not have to plot nor stoop in order to please a master that could care less."

Feyre was struck silent again.

After their mother's untimely death, she and her sisters were left to their own. And since their father had left long ago. Feyre was the only one who had the skill to keep them sheltered and fed.

With her siren.

So she had once taken to the streets, using her shapeshifting powers to attract customers of insurmountable wealth. Whatever nobleman or noble-woman wanted, Feyre's siren reflected; giving each customer pleasure they could never have dreamt of.

Which meant then kept coming back. Effectively keeping Feyre and her sisters in comfort.

"Oh Nesta, when will you accept Feyre's gift and just be happy for our life here?" Elain hushed, no doubt finding the stress in the conversation.

"I will never accept it. Not when Feyre has to pay for it by doing the King's bidding"

Feyre could not oppose Nesta. Because it was true.

The King perhaps used Feyre more than any customer ever had. Even if he had never laid a finger on her, he did not mind taking her siren for advantage.

For when she was only fourteen, the King had found Feyre during his tours of the lower streets. Somehow, he had sensed what power lay under such ever-changing skin. And so he took her as his ward.

Her sister's comfort was payment for her service.

But such a kindness, Feyre discovered, came with a cost. Working for the king was not easy. Seducing or tricking any man that dare disagree with their great leader was mentally and physically exhausting. And dangerous.

But Feyre would do it to give her sister's what they deserved. Jewels and gowns and food to keep them blissfully happy.

But Nesta spoke on, "I refuse to settle for such a life. I am thankful, but not thankful enough to allow Feyre to demean herself for such a disagreeable man."

"I know, but try to remember how gracious the King has been," Elain said, "He has given us every luxury we could ever wish for."

"I love you both, but sometimes you two are a little too loyal for you own good," Nesta grumbled. Elain only fidgeted with Feyre's deep blue dress. Her sister had chosen it especially for that night. Under the King's recommendation of course.

For every part of Feyre's charade, the King made sure to have his say in it.

He thought of each mask Feyre to wear. Each jewel or dress to accent her matching figure.

And even if the worst Feyre would ever do was bat her lashes at whatever Lord needed persuading that night, she felt viler with each dinner she attended.

Even on the streets, her profession held no trickery. Yes, her face and body was never her own. But it was straight forward. Her customers paid for a service and she delivered it.

But changing political opinions and sometimes the very morals of her victims, well… it made Feyre feel wretched with guilt.

"Yes, well, you could do with a dose of loyalty here and there," Elain chastised Nesta, "You might even find that you like it."

"Say much more Elain, and Nesta might vomit," Feyre teased with a grin towards her eldest sister.

"You're right, the mere thought of bowing to that man makes me ill," Nesta groaned.

Elain rolled her eyes with a huff, "I don't see the issue. Feyre is good at her job!"

"Yes. However, what can _Feyre_ do that the King can't do on his own?" Nesta spun on, "That is why I will never respect a man that makes someone else do his bidding"

Feyre turned her eyes away before Nesta could find the truth in them. But their eldest sister stood to brace her hands on her shoulders, forcing her look into the light eyes they all shared.

"Tell me I'm wrong."

"I don't do everything, you know," Feyre lied.

For with each scheming as to how a new body or feature could help their cause, she felt herself growing weaker and weaker.

Even worse, Feyre was growing more and more complacent to her siren's desires.

But the King always insisted she be at every dinner.

And tonight, Feyre was to welcome their new guest from the Southern Continent. And in turn, to don a seductive face and body.

"How long can you keep doing this?" Nesta asked, "I know what toll it takes, Feyre, all the while you grow tired while the King continues to take advantage."

Feyre merely brushed out from under her sister's hands, not able to look at her in the eyes anymore. Because Nesta had the annoying talent of always being right.

"You know very well why I serve him," Feyre said instead, "If I quit, I worry that we will be thrown back to the slums." Easing back to her vanity, Feyre wisely avoided both her sisters' gazes to powder her nose.

But no amount of white dust would cover up the signs of fatigue. Every day Feyre saw the dark blue circles that hung under her eyes. Collarbones that stuck out too much. Skin that was paper-thin.

Her magic was eating her from the inside out.

But the siren hid all of that. Everyone else saw a woman that was the picture of health and beauty. Perhaps even glowing.

But Feyre felt the truth.

"You mustn't worry about us," Nesta said, "I know how the Kings makes you to seduce those men. And it isn't with your wits alone, Feyre," she said with disgust. Elain remained quiet.

"Alright, Yes, the King did ask for me to wear a particularly pleasing face when I met this new Lord. So what?"

"So what?" Nesta folded her arms, "So why keep obeying a King that would rather _you_ do all the hard work just so he can sit on his ass all day?"

"Careful, Nesta, those are treasonous words," Elain chastised. But it didn't matter. Nesta would never stop fighting.

Just like Elain would never stop comforting. And Feyre would always be helpless against the curse the Gods bestowed on her.

Even if Feyre had more of a hold around her power being twenty and one, her siren still beckoned for pleasure and seduction.

So Feyre could forever wish to be rid of it all. Nesta could try to berate it out of her. But the siren would always win.

"Well, if you have already made up your mind, I can't stop you," Nesta stood to help Feyre, "Will you at least show me what face the King wants you to wear tonight?"

"Oh, so now you're curious?"

"Hush up and show us," Nesta said, but a smile was starting to form. Feyre had already been forgiven.

Now and then she liked to imagine that Nesta and Elain could see her true skin, but sadly no one seemed to be able to see past the endless masks.

No one could see Feyre for who she _really_ was. In the northern continent, the second largest in their world, everyone was pale as a porcelain doll, their hair and eyes just as light.

And Feyre…well, she was different.

Her hair was an odd color, telling herself that the gods had made her unique. Bright freckles dotted her sun-kissed skin, a sign she was not pure as the rest.

And her blue-gray eyes were not bright like her sisters, but dark and sinister like an impending ocean storm.

And sometimes—although it was a pathetic thought she was careful to keep inside—Feyre wished someone could see past the siren.

Nesta just gave her a long look as they waited for the new mask to revealed; which Feyre returned with an eventual smile. Elain nodded her head excitedly.

"Fine, see for yourself." With a deep breath, Feyre revealed what face she would be wearing.

The face she usually wore on a daily basis was some safely pretty village girl she saw once with mousey hair, grey eyes and a shapeless body. Something she knew wouldn't stir up too much trouble. Something safe.

But days like today, the King called on Feyre to do more. To make men leer and forget why they objected to him in the first place.

And that meant for her siren to make fantasies flesh.

But when Feyre showed what fantasy she had conjured, each of her sister's jaws dropped.

"Oh, Feyre. You can't," Elain's eyes were wide. Nesta's lips were pressed in dispute.

She only looked down to see mocha skin. Skin that, unbeknownst to her sisters, Feyre had been born with.

Thick auburn hair offset the dark tone. Close to what Feyre's real locks looked like.

All of it, if revealed as her true self, would show the world she was made differently. Even if she had been born from northern parents, Feyre was anything but.

Perhaps it was a cruel joke from the Gods. A way for them to remind Feyre every day that she was different. That she was unnatural…

"Let me explain," she said warily when Nesta had yet to speak, "The King ordered me to take on a southern skin because the new Lord I am to meet is also from the south. So my appearance is not thoughtless. It will work in our favor."

"I won't let you do this," Nesta said firmly, "You know the southern and northern continents do not mix. Up here, looking like that, you're likely to start a riot, Feyre. I mean—just look at you! "

Feyre did look, and despite what everyone else thought she looked like, she saw her real body. Broad shoulders and full breasts fell into wide hips; a figure most northern men turned their noses up at.

And it was strange to see her sister's reaction to her appearance. For neither of them had ever been to the southern continent.

Both Nesta and Elain had seen pictures in books of the rich-skinned people, and the blooming culture to match. But beyond that, they had never seen anyone that looked like Feyre.

Only once, did Feyre decide to let the world see that facet of herself. When she was merely sixteen, exhausted by the charade of her magic, did she let her mask slip.

But as soon as she showed what lied beneath, people's eyes started to follow. They treated her differently. Some even seemed to think less of Feyre; scolding her for things she never did.

So she had learned that day to never become her true self without preparing for the cost.

"The King needs more allies," Feyre explained, "And if this Southern Dignitary thinks a fellow countryman is in support of the King, then that may bring him easier to our side. Perhaps even convince him that signing a treaty with us is in his best interest."

"No, Feyre," Nesta shook her head, "Not like this. Men have often lost their minds around your siren, and this mask will definitely push them over the edge."

Indeed, if Feyre didn't control her siren well enough, some men would become crazed. Even going far enough to open their minds and let her magic take control.

But she had never allowed herself to take that last step. Even peering into minds for a second took more strength than she had.

"Just put on a pretty face from the north, it should still work," Elain offered sweetly.

"I'll be fine." Feyre turned to take a final look at the face. It was dangerously close to her real form. But not quite.

She had vowed to herself long ago that her true features would never be showed to the world. It made her feel too vulnerable. For as much as Feyre despised her masks, she secretly took comfort in the anonymity they gave her. It allowed her to do her work, and not be hurt by it. At least, that's what she kept telling herself.

"Feyre, no, just listen to us…" Nesta called.

But Feyre was already walking down the corridor.

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"And just where do you think you're going?"

"The King requested my presence," Feyre announced when the two guards stepped in front of her. She had gotten curious glances her entire path to the main dining room. Yet no one had said a thing until now.

"Who are you?" one ordered, both their gazes wide as they took in her appearance; their attention flicking from her chest to her face, and then back again.

"I'm Lady Feyre. Could you open the doors, please?" She displayed the ring the King had given her for events just like this.

The golden band was engraved with her own personal sigil on top. The gold was also laced with a chemical only familiar to Feyre's skin. So if it was ever taken from her finger and worn by another, the metal would turn green.

One guard finally blinked at the jewelry, recognizing what the King had given her for this exact occasion, "Lady Feyre, I'm so sorry. My apologizes; it's just—"

"I know, I look different," she rolled her shoulders, preparing for what would follow—"Than usual, I suppose," she finished. They just continued to gawk. "If you please, the King awaits," she motioned to the double doors when neither responded.

The second guard finally leapt into action, "Of course, your ladyship. Our apologies."

They thrust open the doors a moment later. And she felt their eyes on her behind when she passed. Feyre raised her chin to the feeling.

There would be much more staring to follow, no doubt.

Because the dining room was stuffed to the brim with pale nobility. As each Northern dignitary and his wife looked to Feyre in shock. They all bore white bland faces. And they were all thinking the same thing.

Feyre did nothing but head for the open seat to the right of the King.

The hall was finely dressed for the occasion. With gold and blue banners hanging from each wall she guessed were to honor the foreign Lord she was to seduce. Colors that perfectly matched Feyre's own dress and jewelry.

As her heels clacked dully on the stone floor, her attention went to each guest she passed. Every face was blander than the next. But she still noticed how wide each of the men's eyes went. Or how the women raised their brows in disgust.

She merely pushed past that feeling. Perhaps she was different or did not belong. It was a fact Feyre should be proud of. Wearing masks and drifting anonymously from victim to victim had always been her life, after all.

But even the King eyes flared before realizing who she was. Even to him, Feyre was a stranger.

But then he recognized his prize. The temptress of the North. She was nothing more than a trick pony, gaining more seduction and power with each face she wore.

And the realization made Feyre feel wholly alone in the world.

"Hello, my Flower," the King said, using that horrid pet name as he recovered, "I must admit, we wondered if you were going to make it at all."

"My King, apologies for the tardiness." She gave a quick curtsey before taking her seat; careful to keep her head down. Feyre felt the King's eyes survey her dress; could imagine the pleasure fill his gray eyes.

Thankfully the King seemed satisfied as he turned attention to his left, "You see, your Highness? I told you she would be worth the wait."

Feyre didn't look to who the King spoke to. But the sheer possessiveness in the statement made her want to raise her head to correct him: that she was no one's possession.

But she _was,_ wasn't she? Nothing more than stock being paraded about.

And glancing down the table, Feyre saw every single Lord thought the same.

Before she could retch completely, she swiped a passing glass of champagne. She swallowed it in one gulp, not caring who the King was speaking to. This Lord was probably as vile and cold as the rest.

But then the stranger finally answered, "I never doubted Feyre would be worth every second of the wait." This new voice was dark, elegant. And Feyre's muscles went loose at the accent: rich like velvet.

Foreign. Different.

Ever so carefully, she brought her eyes up to see whomever such a voice could belong to. And as soon as she did, her breath caught.

Stunning. The most stunning man Feyre had seen. She hardly knew it was possible for a man to be so beautiful.

The dark male only quirked a brow at her attention. "How are you, Lady Feyre?"

Yes. he was definitely from the southern continent. If his accent didn't say as much, his sun-kissed skin did and black hair did.

His hair was a shimmer of blue and black as it shifted under the light. Feyre merely blinked as he angled his head at her. His face was something else entirely.

Sharp cheekbones framed his straight nose. He looked like he was carved more perfectly than the Gods themselves.

And seated as the focal point of his features, were eyes such a vibrant blue that Feyre hardly knew the color possible. They were ebbing closer towards violet as they took her in.

"Lady Feyre?" he repeated, a slow smile spreading when she had yet to answer.

"I am doing well, thank you," she all but sputtered. His smile turned into a grin, showing off sparkling white teeth. Feyre adverted her eyes it was so overwhelming.

"Now that you're here," the King started, "Feyre, let me introduce you to his Royal Highness, Prince Rhysand of the Southern Continent. He was the new guest I was telling you about."

And all attraction for this stranger evaporated at that name. Feyre's knew it from rumors alone.

Rhysand.

The soon-to-be King of the biggest continent in the world. Ruthless in his affairs of his people. Cunning in each decision made for their welfare. Powerful in his resources.

It could be argued that beside the King, Rhysand was the single most powerful man in the world.

And he was currently staring at Feyre like he knew what lay beneath. Mask and all.

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 **A/N Tell me what you think! After I finish the last chapter of A Court of Desolation and despair, I will start posting regularly :)**


	2. Chapter 2

"Your Highness," Feyre inclined her head, understanding that this was the very man the King had wanted her to seduce with her siren.

But as those violet eyes rested on her, Rhysand seemed to know the same.

"Lady Feyre," he said, "I'm so glad that I've finally found you." That drawl was as dangerous as his smile.

"Excuse me?"

"All I mean is, that tales of your beauty have not been exaggerated. It's a relief to be able to match a face to the name."

Feyre didn't know what to say. So she chose to give him a tight smile.

"So you agree then?" he smiled.

"Agree on what?"

"That you're beautiful?"

Feyre pressed her lips together. "You said it, not me."

That seemed to humor Rhysand, as he sat back with a rather annoying satisfaction on his face.

Feyre turned away from that stare, for she knew he was trying to get under her skin.

But she would be damned before she let a man's words fluster her.

Especially from Prince Rhysand.

The man was absolutely notorious in the northern country. Not only with his good looks, but his ruthlessness when it came to his kingdom in the south.

All their gossip told of a Prince as arrogant as he was stubborn; willing to sacrifice anything for his home land. But above of all of the ego between the north and south, there was one fact that everyone agreed on.

Rhysand was absolutely beloved.

And it suddenly wasn't so hard to believe, as Feyre pretended not to look at him sidelong.

Who couldn't love a face like that?

"So now that you've finally met my Flower," The King finally spoke, seemingly ignorant of what had just transpired between them, "Can we continue what we were discussing?"

"Be my guest." Rhysand said with a sweep of his hand. The King nodded, beginning whatever speech he had. And not even Feyre could hear them.

She was flustered not to be allowed in their conversation. But Feyre took the opportunity to observe her opponent better.

For if Feyre was to seduce Rhysand to their side, she would need to assess his strength and weaknesses. And discover how to undermine them.

From the looks of his attire alone, it was clear the Prince liked to flaunt his royalty. Everything Rhysand wore was made from opulent fabrics.

His black overcoat was stitched with gold to match the vest underneath. Another piece of gold was pinned over his left breast.

So he enjoyed his wealth, if not ostentatious about it.

Perhaps even, Rhysand secretly felt uneasy in his post. And he felt the need to flaunt it to make up for his other short comings.

Another fact Feyre could use to her advantage.

But unlike the rest of the Noblemen at the table, the Prince wore no neck tie. The first button of his white undershirt was undone; showing the tan skin underneath. And Feyre wondered if the act was rejecting the rigidness of their society?

But no matter the reason, Feyre looked down to her own constricting court dress, she was envious of such an air of ease.

Yet despite Feyre's own observing, as well as the rest of the tables gawking, the Prince and the King continued to speak in hushed tones.

And she had to admit, she was beyond miffed to still be excluded.

But she noticed how Rhysand's was careful and calm as he discussed his secrets with the King. It was a concentration Feyre knew too well.

This Prince cared for his people. Enough to come all the way to the North continent ensure his own continent's prosperity.

And despite that he was perhaps fighting a losing battle when it came to the King's assistance, Feyre was still impressed Rhysand didn't seem to cower from the King's hard gaze.

On the contrary, he seemed to be taking control of the conversation as the King hesitantly nodded.

Strong. Powerful, if not egotistical. Rhysand was everything and more.

A more than worthy adversary for Feyre. One that might definitely give her siren a run for its money.

Gods help her.

"I'm so terribly sorry, what did you just say? _You_ people talk so oddly that I can never hear you right," The King interrupted Feyre's musing, speaking loud enough for the whole table to hear.

 _You people._ The King practically spat the words.

Yet the only sign of the Prince's annoyance was his clenched jaw. But Rhysand recovered quickly before saying, "I suppose you can hear anything you want, your Majesty, but I said that the Night Court—"

"—Gods above!" the King interrupted with a guffaw, "No one has referred to our lands as courts since the dawn of time. I didn't want to believe the rumors, but I do believe you people are living in the stone age!"

There it was again. _You people._ And even worse, the King had interrupted the Prince.

Rhysand's eyes visibly hardened this time. But the King didn't seem to care. But Feyre felt an urge to ease the tension.

"Please, your Majesty, I bet some of our customs are archaic to southerners." She placed her hand on the King's sleeve, a move that Rhysand flashed to.

The King looked only to her, "I suppose you are correct," he smiled, "My, my, how I am wrapped around your delicate finger. Any word from your mouth and I am at peace."

Feyre gave the King a tight smile. But she was aware Rhysand was watching their exchange with rather intense attention.

The King only went on, "Since you have so severely conquered me, perhaps you could convince the Prince here to sign my treaty," he grinned to Rhysand, "He doesn't seem to want to bargain with me. Maybe your pretty face will do the trick."

Neither Feyre nor Rhysand answered as the King continued, "I dare say, my Flower, you could bring peace to any dinner. Even if it was nothing but savages at the table."

Thunderous laughter followed, but Feyre felt her heart sink as the King smiled to the Prince.

"Your Majesty, please," Feyre said, dropping her voice. But the Prince exuded nothing but lethal calm.

"I must admit, Your Majesty," Rhysand started, "Although I don't doubt Feyre's talents, exactly what savages do you speak of? You surely can't mean my men, since we have reunited the southern continent with nothing but diplomatic actions," he paused to tilt his head, "So that leads me to believe you are referring to your own court members."

Someone sputtered from down the table. But the King remained unfazed.

"If we were to speak plainly, I _was_ referring to your monstrous war bands." The King said tightly, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't your ancestors conquer through pillaging neighboring countries? A strategy I hear you have employed elsewhere."

Feyre felt her face go white at the King's implications. Rhysand only sat forward with a chilling smile, "Well, if you talk down to such rumors, why do _you_ yourself use the same practices?"

"And what practices are those?"

"Fear and starvation," Rhysand said point blank. "For all we have to do is look at Feyre to know how you treat your people." His eyes moved to her, and she froze.

"I'm, afraid I don't know what you mean." The King said tightly. But Rhysand's attention remained on her.

"Really?" Rhysand twirled his glass in his hand, but something lay deeper within his features, "Is that why you are so underweight, Feyre? Or is that a new northern fashion?"

Her mouth popped open as the King sputtered, "Sir, hold your tongue!"

"Apologies, it was only a passing observation," Rhysand shrugged, but his eyes never left her.

Feyre was the one that had to advert her attention from him. But it was no use. Her face practically radiated with shame.

"What say you, Feyre?" Rhysand pressed, "Do you tire from your work?"

"I assure you, Feyre does not!" The King shouted.

"I think Feyre can answer for herself," Rhysand said.

Feyre glanced to see the King's face taught with anger before finding her answer, "No, I have not grown tired of my duties. And I dare say I never will."

"Do you?" Rhysand's eyes seemed to simmer from her answer, "Then the King will find no shame in giving you a sabbatical."

Feyre held her chin higher, "Quite the opposite actually."

"Is that so?" the Prince leaned forward, and she steeled her expression to remain strong.

Because somehow, Rhysand was able to see through the mask. Through the dress and jewels and through her damned siren itself, right to Feyre's very core.

Feyre had always knowing to be playing a dangerous game with the King. That one day someone would discover her tricks. But this game with Rhysand was far different.

"This is not appropriate conversation," The King said, "We should be discussing the upcoming treaty."

"If you please," Feyre accidently silenced the King. And she quickly saw how he did not appreciate her intrusion. But Rhysand's eyes lit with pride.

"I would like to prove you wrong," she went on, "Just name a proper time to visit, your Highness, and we'll just have to see who is right."

"I might just have to take you up on that," Rhysand smiled. "My continent boasts its ability to heal all ailments. Perhaps even you will find the fatigue in your eyes lessens." He took a long pull from his glass.

And all the while, that violet gaze remained.

"I would be delighted," Feyre gave him a tight smile. Rhysand returned his own, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

As if calling her out her in such a way, had done the opposite of humor him.

"Well," the King cleared his throat. And Feyre's eyes were forced from the Prince, "I think I've had enough for one night, so I will retire from the table now."

The King stood forcefully. The rest of the table followed.

Rhysand remained seated.

Everyone left the table and quickly fell into their own conversations. Far from where the King stewed with his steward at the other end.

Yet, as Feyre tried not glance across, she saw where Rhysand stood, unperturbed to what he had just started.

As everyone retired to private circles, the Prince chose a group of younger Nobles. But even if he kept his gaze from Feyre, she felt as if he still kept an eye on her.

"Feyre, may I have a word," The King suddenly appeared. But he didn't wait for her answer before pulling her to the other side of the room.

Feyre cast a glance to the Prince, but Rhysand and the group of Lords were keeping to their own.

She only watched with narrowed eyes as Rhysand lowered his head to murmur something to a Nobleman's wife.

Probably boasting of particular talents in the bedroom. And if she wished, Rhysand could show them off.

"My, how charming the Prince is," The King grumbled, interrupting her thoughts, "I would have him drawn and quartered for the impertinence of insulting your appearance alone. But unfortunately, I not only need his southern gold, I need that insufferable man's good opinion if there is any hope of keeping my treaty alive."

Feyre clenched her teeth. She didn't want the King's new deal to pass. It would only strip the poor of what little they had and give it right back to the wealthy.

"If you really need the Prince's support, then let me talk to him, I think I can persuade—"

"—No, that won't do a thing," he interrupted.

"You claim yourself that I'm your best negotiator, why not let me prove it?"

"You saw how he brushed you aside during dinner, my flower," the King hushed, "Somehow the Prince is immune to your charms."

Feyre went tense at that. Usually when she wore a mask, men bowed to her feet the moment she entered.

But somehow, Rhysand had been able to resist her siren. To play with it instead of surrendering to it.

Even more so, Rhysand had been able to sense the girl underneath it all.

And Feyre had no idea how.

"But don't fret my dear, what _I_ have in mind will not only have the Prince on our side, but eating out of the palm of our hands as well," the King voice darkened. "He'll rue the day when he tried to cross the North."

"What are you suggesting?" Feyre glanced over, only to see Rhysand deep in conversation. But she wasn't fool enough to think he wasn't watching her all the same.

"I hear that the precious Prince is betrothed," the King said.

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Because I would have you show up in his bedchambers. Tonight."

She swallowed at his meaning, "And what would you have me do?" she asked.

But Feyre already knew very well the answer to be.

"I would have you give the servants something to talk about. Enough that there would be no question about our dear Prince's infidelity," the King revealed with a sickening smile.

"You want me to set him up," she said, "You're talking of seducing and blackmailing a Prince."

"Yes."

"I don't think—" she shook her head, "—I mean, he's a _Prince_ , he can do anything he wants with his bedroom relations before, or even after the wedding! Infidelity is hardly grounds to call off an engagement. Let alone, ruin him enough to come to our side," she said; making her best excuse to avoid it.

For it was not the act of seduction alone that Feyre was scared of doing. Perhaps the worst of it, was the knowledge that she would enjoy every second of it.

Rhysand was egotistical maybe, but she got the feeling he was caring. Caring than most men ever endeavored to be.

And she did not want Rhysand tricked to the King's side.

"That may be true here," The King ran a hand through his thinning hair, "But just as the Prince likes to brag, his Kingdom is different than ours. His reputation would be severely hurt by the scandal."

"So you want me to sleep with him, is that it?" she asked blandly. But her siren sang its desire.

It had been almost six years of not allowing her magic into fullness. Instead, Feyre only allowed her seduction through voice and image alone.

But never, ever had she used the lust of her body to win. And it seemed as though she would have to break that promise.

And the King's silence was his answer.

"I know you've never done anything like this before. But you are the only one I can trust, Feyre. I'm afraid there's no other way."

"But beyond the Prince's arrogance, he seems like a reasonable man. Perhaps if he knew his kingdom would benefit from the deal, he might come to our side naturally!"

"I'm afraid this is the only way." The King said, "You don't actually have to do the deed, just simply make it _look_ like something's happening when the servant walks in. The Prince doesn't even have to know it is you! Wear a face of a maid and go from there," the King eyes were getting wilder by the second. And Feyre saw there was no changing him.

"I know I was once familiar in the art of. . .men," she barely got the words out, "But I don't think I can do this in accordance to my conscience. I cannot blackmail a Prince."

"Oh, my flower," the King said, forcing her gaze to his. "When I rescued you from the streets, I promised you that you would never have to sell your body to survive ever again."

She pressed her eyes shut at his reminder, "I know."

"Yet I've kept that promise nonetheless, correct? I've given you every luxury you've ever wanted, your sisters included. I named you my royal ward so that you would never have to use your magic to survive again. All I ask this one thing in return."

Feyre felt as if a vice was wrapped around her throat. What would he do if she said no?

She had seen before how ruthless the King could be, but that anger had never been turned on her or her sisters.

And she was afraid to see it tested.

"What am I to do exactly," Feyre asked. And his cold smile irked her in the worst way.

But perhaps it was because she also felt another pair of eyes boring into her back. Not having turn to know just who was watching their exchange.

"Make sure you have him in bed in a questionable position," the King murmured, "Long enough for a servant to be able to walk in. You can leave after that. But before you do, make sure you tell our Prince that he better do our bidding, or else."

Feyre blanched, and the King only continued, "Do this to me and you can have a month off from your duties."

Feyre took a step back, and the King merely looked at her expectantly. This was always how he kept her there.

Guilt.

Over her sister and over her power.

And most of all, the promise that one day it would all be over.

"I'll seduce him until the servant walks in," she said blankly, "I'll do my part for the kingdom, but I will not be the one to threaten him. Tomorrow at breakfast you can do the rest."

"What did I do to deserve you?" The King smiled before placing a cold kiss on her hand, and Feyre felt them go clammy.

She didn't know if it was because of the King's order she felt so vile, or the feeling that Rhysand had been listening the entire time.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Feyre stood in the dark hallway. A single torch was the only light in the entire corridor. And despite the chill, or the lack of clothing that was perhaps the cause of the shiver, Feyre felt a moment of peace in the darkness.

But that moment left her as soon as she faced his door.

There was no turning back. Feyre was there to seduce the Prince.

She looked down at the thin dress she wore, a gift from Nesta's wardrobe. The frock was nearly sheer, lined with lace.

Underneath was even more translucent underwear that did nothing to hide Feyre's body.

Although her sisters were against the King ordering it, Nesta and Elain had exclaimed to know she was seducing the Prince. Rumors had already spread through the castle of Rhysand's handsome looks.

They had even encouraged her to him. After all, who could resist someone as striking as him?

But it wasn't the seducing that had Feyre hesitating, for she had done much worse with far more repulsing men.

Her siren actually ebbed with the thought of being with him. Her magic had seen years without being released. And she felt her magic hum, the more Feyre thought of lying with him.

She managed to raise her fist to rap on the door, but her eyes flicked to the skin that covered slender knuckles.

Feyre had long since shifted her appearance.

Just as the King had said, Rhysand was immune to Feyre's southern form.

So now she took on the shape of a northern blonde. Only minutes ago, her sisters had instructed Feyre to choose hair and eyes as light as a summer's day; breasts pert and perfect; hips and backside slender enough as to not overwhelm the even tinier waist.

All were features guaranteed to arouse a southern Prince's interest.

Among other things…

"Yes?" A voice called from inside, and her skin pricked to hear him. Rhysand.

Feyre had forgotten how smooth his voice was. His accent alone caused a shiver to run down her spine. But she locked that desire down tight.

She had a job to do, and nothing more.

"It's a maid, here for turndown service, your Highness," Feyre spoke the words she had rehearsed countless times; making sure her voice sounded light and airy.

"I've already been serviced. No need," the answer came a moment later, and a spark of horror flashed through her mind.

Was he refusing Feyre because he was already with another woman?

But that fear dissipated as soon as she remembered Rhysand's rumored reputation.

Stories spread of a rogue when it came to his flirting. But gossip also told of men and woman begging for his bed, only to be declined.

"Then at least let me check your windows and hearth. To only make sure everything is as it should be," Feyre asked a bit more firmly, hoping it would be enough to persuade him.

If not, she was going to have to come up with a better plan.

"Alright." There was a moment of hesitation. "Just give me a minute to get dressed," he answered shortly after, and Feyre loose a sigh of relief.

Step one was already completed. Feyre hadn't altogether been sure he would allow her inside at all.

But before Feyre could prepare herself for step two, the door was being pulled open.

And there, leaning against the doorframe in pure nonchalance was Rhysand.

Even worse, he was wearing nothing but a white sleep shirt.

Feyre blinked at his bare legs, the frock only covering his lower thighs. She saw the power in such a body. It was unmistakable as he gave her a curt nod.

"Good evening to you," he said, seemingly unimpressed by her own state of undress. As if he didn't even notice it at all.

Feyre recovered her shock as he gestured for her to enter, "Well, do what you must," he said.

She nodded, only pausing when she saw the very little belongings in the room.

No sign of weapons or armor that most men of his standing always brought with them. And Rhysand was rumored to be staying for months.

So why had he brought so little?

Yet most importantly, Feyre detected no smell of a woman.

"Is this your first time?"

She spun at his words, to find Rhysand pouring a crystal glass with amber liquid, "Excuse me?" she inquired.

Feyre suddenly remembered what she was supposed to be checking his accommodations instead of gawking. "Sorry, I'll hurry," she mumbled, moving swiftly to the other side of the room to start checking windows.

It was something Feyre's own maids did, and all she could think of at the moment.

"Didn't mean to offend you. Take all the time you need," he chuckled after she rushed to the far side of the room.

"You didn't offend me," Feyre answered a bit too curtly.

"Good to know," he laughed darker. And Feyre realized her tone had been too short.

"Thank you for your concern." She lowered her head, climbing the first window ledge to check its security. Feyre kept her back to Rhysand as she did.

She counted the seconds it took to close and latch the first window to calm her breathing. Ten seconds, before she was lowering to the ground.

"I could have done this, you know," Rhysand said as she turned. She jumped to find him so close.

But sure enough, he was below her perch, offering her his hand.

Feyre paused before reluctantly taking the gesture. And she tried not to shiver when his calluses scraped against her palm.

"Then I would be out of a job, wouldn't I?" she said when her feet met ground. His brows rose.

"Yes, I suppose you're right," he said, helping her onto the next ledge in the same fashion. Feyre did her best to shake off his presence.

But even his scent seemed to wrap around Feyre's desire, pulling it to the surface. He smelled of citrus and sea, fresh and luxurious.

And as Feyre's reigned in her lust for him, her fingers slipped on the latch.

"Are you alright?"

She jolted to find him still behind her, his hands out stretched in case she fell.

"Why wouldn't I be?" she answered, only shortly kicking herself for the response. No maid would speak to a prince in such a way.

But Rhysand only laughed. "I only ask because you've been pondering that latch for the past minute now. Is something wrong with it?"

"Oh," she glanced down to find him smiling. Feyre controlled her own grin at his words. "No, nothing is wrong."

He quirked his brows, "Then care to share what you're so nervous about?"

"I assure you I am alright, your Highness," Feyre said, pushing her tone back into softness. In her candidness, she had reverted back to her old voice.

"Just making sure," he said, and she could feel is careful gaze on her as she lowered once more. He helped her down again. And this time, his other hand came to the small of her back.

The heat of it seemed to singe a hole in her dress.

"I thank you," she murmured. "But I can fair on my own. Please, return to your duties," she nodded to his desk, hoping Rhysand would return to it.

He only measured her with his eyes. "If it pleases you."

Feyre merely watched as he took three broad steps to reach the other side of the room.

Returning to her work, she let out a sigh. But each time Feyre climbed onto a new window, she felt his eyes.

"It's rather late," he finally spoke. Her ears pricked to the pouring of more liquid, "What's a woman like you doing something so low?"

She halted at his question.

' _Doing something so low.'_

Like blackmailing a Prince that despite his bravado at dinner, seemed genuinely kind.

"I volunteered."

"I would think no one would want the bad luck of serving an enemy Prince," he said.

Feyre only closed her eyes when she finished her final lock. No more dawdling.

She would have to do what the Gods created her for.

"I don't think that's what everyone is worried about," she answered truthfully.

"What is it then?"

Feyre winced at his words. She forgone a truthful answer by lowering to the floor, only to find Rhysand watching her again.

"It's nothing of consequence." she said, shifting her hair across her back. And she swore Rhysand swallowed at the sight.

"I want to hear it from you," he smiled.

Feyre's shifted her weight, but conceded to give him her real answer. "I don't pretend to know the other ladies' opinions on the matter. But if I had to guess, I would say it's that your reputation has preceded you."

"Really?" he seemed amused by that. "Would you care to tell me what reputation that is?"

"I think you can guess as much." Feyre's courage grew as she trailed a hand down her neck to her chest. Her gown parted to show how much bare skin she bore.

Rhysand sucked a breath.

"Forgive me, but I think I have a pretty clear view already," he gestured to her. "But I would still like to hear it from your lips."

Feyre gave him a small smile, her hands coming to clasp the bedpost. Rhysand only waited.

"Tales tell of a Prince that does not…shy away from women," Feyre said, intentionally parting her lace gown further. Now her legs were entirely bared to him. And she watched as the Prince ate up the sight.

But he was quick to right his gaze. "I'm afraid I will have to spoil your perception of me," he said, "I am nothing of the sort."

"That is a pity," Feyre cocked her head, letting her siren take over with each response she gave.

"You would rather I be loose with my bedroom relations?" He huffed at the thought, and she shrugged.

"Maybe. Maybe not," Feyre smiled, realizing that seducing Rhysand would be easier than she thought.

For each word she spoke, the more that mask slipped; Feyre was no demure house maid, but the temptress she had been born to be.

"Well, which one is it?" Rhysand asked as Feyre reached the end of the bed. She sat with a plop, pretending to mull over her answer. His eyes never left her.

"I'd like you to guess," she purred, dragging a hand along the silk bedspread.

"Really?" he grunted. But despite the nonchalant act he might have been putting on, Feyre still sensed that strange darkness that radiating off him at dinner.

He was hateful trickery, this Prince. A sort of dangerous power that could rival her own. Something as forbidden and rich as chocolate.

And Feyre found not just her siren, but she herself wanted to touch it; to taste it.

"I'm not one for guessing games," he said.

Feyre cocked her head with a pout. "Pity," she said, "I was sent here intentionally. To make sure you were more than comfortable," Feyre finally admitted with the crossing of her legs. Rhysand only kept his dutiful watch on her face.

"There is no need for such titles. Call me Rhysand." He suddenly turned back to his desk then. And Feyre couldn't help but let her eyes wander over the expanse of his muscled back.

Her attention went to the collar of his shirt; the fabric dipping low enough to grant her view of the skin there.

And she swore she saw the black ink of a tattoo.

"I can feel you staring," he said suddenly, his back still turned, "Tell me why you really came here tonight." His tone was firm as he scribbled something in a journal.

"I told you, your highness, I came to make sure you were fully serviced," Feyre stood to take one step towards him. Then another.

Soon she would be close enough to run her hands across those wide shoulders, or even drag her fingers along his muscled chest.

And suddenly, her head clouded with desire.

Rhysand only glanced at her over his shoulder. And Feyre paused in her pursuit. "Is that so?" His violet eyes seemed pierce right through her. She swallowed.

"Yes, your Highness," Feyre pinned at her sides as she pushed out her breasts. His gaze went to the minute invitation, but he was quick to correct it.

"I told you not to call me that. And I've been serviced enough to last a lifetime, I assure you," he spun in his chair to face her, "Matter of fact, before you came knocking, five other women only just offered themselves to me," he said, a hint of a smile forming on those dangerously full lips, "What do you think of that?"

"I think those women could try their entire lives, and they would never compare to what I offer." Feyre blinked at the sudden jealousy in her tone. It must have been her siren that had answered just then.

Yes, her siren.

Not Feyre.

He only chuckled, "I'm inclined to believe you. But once and for all, _why_ are you pretending to be something you're clearly not?"

"I'm here for you." Her voice was sharp as she leaned against his desk.

He hummed. "Still, ever so adamant." Those violet eyes flicked with humor, and there was a beat of silence when she heard nothing but a roar in her veins.

He was taunting her. Toying with her like nothing but a play thing.

And her siren did not like it at all.

"I think I should be asking why you're here." Feyre snapped, and his smile dropped. "I see you sing this air of ease," she gestured to his clothing, the unbuttoned collar and disheveled hair, "But I see your back is tattooed. And I know from experience that only assassins or pirates get tattoos. Definitely not royal princes. So I ask you, _Rhysand,"_ Feyre drawled his name before leveling a knowing smirk at his wide eyes, _"_ Why are _you_ pretending you're something you're not?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N I am currently operating with no Beta, so forgive any mistakes! Thank you for reading and reviewing. Hope you guys enjoy :)**

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Something crossed over his features at her bluntness. Feyre craned her neck to watch as he stood with set jaw. And even if his height towered over hers, she held her ground.

"Is that what you've come here to do?" Rhysand drawled, "To accuse me? First you beg for my bed. But as soon as I refuse, you call me a murderous thief?"

Feyre clenched her teeth at that word.

 _Beg._

They were the ones that begged, all those men that her siren had wrapped around her finger in one breath. It had never been the other way around.

And her siren was furious that Rhysand had suddenly turned the tables.

But Feyre pushed on.

"Don't pretend, because I can see it in your eyes." Her breath was heavy now. For Feyre could no longer disguise the fact that she _did_ want him.

Perhaps because she had been so used to having to fake all of it: the wanting, the attraction. And now that she was feeling real desire, it clouded her mind.

She could only imagine how heavenly it would be to share Rhysand's bed and his body. And perhaps his insufferable ego could make things all the more interesting.

"You may be right," Rhysand quirked a brow, "But I also know you made your offers for the wrong reasons."

"There is nothing wrong with a man and woman wanting each other."

Rhysand let out a chuckle, leaving to pour yet another glass with amber liquid. And if Feyre didn't know any better, she would have thought him tense.

"And if I did?" He pivoted to look at her, "There's nothing monumental in me finding you attractive. I'm sure you're used to men _and_ women falling at your feet. It would perhaps be more interesting if I _didn't_ find you attractive."

Feyre didn't miss a beat before she was at his front, gazing up at him. "Is that it then," she murmured, "You would rather be in the company of a man?"

"No," he lowered his gaze to her, "But I will not lie with you tonight. Not like this."

Feyre paused.

 _Not like this._

She opened her mouth to ask what he meant. But she snapped it shut the next second.

Feyre was running out of time. The other servant the King promised to send. The one that was to catch her and Rhysand in the act, would be there any minute.

Feyre had to hurry this up.

"Final offer, Prince," she said lower, "I assure you that I can make you feel things you've never dreamt of."

Gods, she was advertising her siren as if it was nothing more than a party trick. And Rhysand smiled like he knew he had gotten the best of her.

"I must say, I don't doubt that."

Feyre raised an eyebrow in wait, but he only took another pull from his glass.

"But I must refuse you once more," he said.

And despite her hatred of Rhysand's ego, or the hatred of the King making her do this in the first place, Feyre felt her chest plummet.

She didn't know if it was the fact that she had failed in her task….

Or that she had actually wanted him.

But either way, Feyre was too confused to react as Rhysand quickly folded her dress shut. And as he gently nudged her out the door, he peered down to say,

"One last thing. Could you kindly tell the servant that I assume is on their way, to leave me undisturbed? I've had enough lies for one night." His voice was rather harsh as he shut the door in her face.

And Feyre was left gawking in the hallway; slowly trying to absorb what had just transpired.

No one had been able to reject her siren; reject _her,_ in her entire life.

Her eyes dimly fell to the _'Do Not Disturb'_ sign hanging on the doorknob.

She blinked as it swung back and forth. And Feyre realized Rhysand had not just put it there.

His hands had been empty when he pushed her out. She knew because she could still feel their full heat on her arms.

So that mean it had been there the entire time.

Feyre cocked her head; the tiny words haunting her intelligence.

And then she realized why he had put it there, if Rhysand intended nothing to happen.

He had known.

Rhysand had known of her plan all along.

Of her ruse with the King. And their goal to blackmail.

Somehow, the Prince had grown wise to their tricks. And had put the sign on the door a precaution in case a servant _did_ come.

That was why Rhysand had toyed with Feyre so much. He had known fully that she was sent there to sleep with him. And that no person could enter his rooms after her, or face questioning.

And despite all the other reasons she should be bothered by her failure, it was Rhysand's rejection that send Feyre fuming back to her rooms.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The next morning, Feyre was in a horrid mood. She couldn't get Rhysand's words out of her head.

So much so, she had actually dreamt of the encounter that previous night. Albeit, it included a bit more kissing and touching than the reality boasted. But she had woken that much angrier.

"What climbed up your stockings and bit you in the ass this morning?" Nesta asked from beside her.

"Nothing." Feyre continued scribbling in her sketchbook.

But as she pulled away her charcoal to take a look at her work, her paper revealed a pair of dark male eyes.

She shut the leather book with a loud snap. Nesta quirked a brow.

"Tell me, how did it go with the Prince last night?" Elain asked from her spot nestled next to the roses. Their youngest sister adored everything nature.

Feyre herself, had her inclination towards the endlessness that was the ocean.

That was, if she ever was allowed to leave the capitol.

"Nothing worth telling," she answered.

"Feyre?" Elain asked gently, "Are you sure you're alright? You returned last night so suddenly."

"Nothing is wrong. I told you, he rejected me."

"Yes, and we just choose not to believe you," Nesta giggled.

"No really, nothing happened. I practically stood naked in front of the man and he slammed the door in my face."

"Really?" Elain's eyes widened, "Perhaps Nesta should have a go at him."

Nesta smiled at the thought.

"Both are you are welcome to. But its highly doubtful he would accept either of you." Feyre said. But as she returned to her journal, an unmistakable jealousy started leaked from her siren.

The mere thought of Rhysand fancying either her sisters made Feyre's blood boil.

"What makes you say that? Does he prefer men?" Nesta seemed to ponder it for a moment.

"He told me he didn't. Perhaps he is loyal to his supposed fiancé, after all." Feyre said, pulling her skirts aside to stand, "Either way, I grow tired of sketching. I think I'll go for a walk in the gardens to clear my head."

"Do you want us to join you?" Elain started to stand, but Feyre shook her head.

"No, thank you. I think I need to be alone for a while."

Nesta eyed her warily, "Just be careful with this many foreigners in the castle, alright? That Prince is too cunning for his own good."

"I'll be careful." Feyre threw on her cape, making her way to the mazes of shrubery.

She knew the King's royal gardens were unsurpassable. People came far and wide to view them.

With its hundreds of rose bushes it, wasn't that hard to believe one was in some sort of fairy tale.

But even the bright flowers, or sprawling greenery couldn't convince Feyre she was in anything but a nightmare.

For even as she sought to catch a bit of fresh air and not think about her duties, her chest seized.

Because walking right toward her was the Prince of the Night Court.

Even worse, Rhysand was walking towards her with intent.

But just as Feyre turned to make her escape, she found a wall of shrubbery in her way. Magic-tainted plants made sure the maze always changed. And it made Feyre feel like she wasn't so alone in her power.

But today, she scowled at the plant.

Thankfully she had chosen to wear an anonymous face that day. Not only had she not been in the mood to deal with anyone recognizing her, she especially hadn't wanted the Prince identifying her.

But despite it all, Rhysand was still making his way over.

"Hello," his smooth voice called, "Lovely day, isn't it?"

Feyre turned with a bland smile and the smallest curtsey.

"It is." She said nothing else as she fanned herself, pretending to admire the gardens.

"I'm glad I found you. I've been searching for ages."

She spun to him. "Excuse me?"

He pointed over his shoulder, "The mazes kept changing. I have to admit, I was shocked. Since I never thought the King foolish enough to keep enchanted shrubs," he smiled as he pulled out an apple from his pocket.

"Sir, I'm sorry, have we met before?" Feyre asked.

Rhysand should have seen her as nothing but a stranger in her current mask.

Instead, he was treating her like a well-known acquaintance.

He only smiled wider.

"Oh, I would say so. How could I forget the encounter we had last night?" He swallowed the bite of his apple.

"What encounter?" Feyre looked down to see the pale skin of her current mask.

All the features were as right as rain. And should have made her appear as just another court wife.

Rhysand only chuckled. "Admittedly, I did enjoy the show you put on," he said, "It's been a while since I've seen something so entertaining. And all so very convincing! Even if it all was in the effort to blackmail me."

Feyre was struck silent.

He knew it was her. Somehow, he knew.

"How did you—?" she shook her head to clear the confusion. "What are you playing at?"

"Oh, don't worry, I have no doubt you still have your mask on, and it's probably lovely. It just doesn't work on me."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Feyre looked to see if they were alone in the gardens. But she was afraid if she fled now, she would get lost in the maze.

"Don't bother denying it, Feyre. None of your other masks work on me." His eyes lowered to her dress with disgust, "Well, besides that horrid heap of lace this country calls a dress. I always knew you to prefer something a bit more breathable." He smiled with the thought, and Feyre heated with anger.

"Who told you my secret? A servant? I demand to know."

"No one told me." He tossed the half-eaten fruit into the bushes. And Feyre mulled over doing the same to him. "Although, I do hear rumors. About a woman that can somehow change her appearance to men's fantasies. That she lures them into whatever trap the King commands. That she was given a rare shape-shifting magic."

Her eyes went wide at his words. But Rhysand only continued,

"I know it all, Feyre," he murmured, "The temptress of the North. The beautiful blonde, or the enticing redhead. Even the exotic dark-skinned beauty you donned at dinner." He gave her a devious smirk at that. "All these forms are mere masks. And underneath them, is you."

"How would you know all of this if you only see one face?" she challenged.

"People talk."

"Did you bribe them?"

Rhysand shrugged in sickening nonchalance. "I bribed no one. As I said before, I see you as you truly are, Feyre. It's as simple as that. But—" He held up a finger, "—Just as a bit of advice. You should be careful who you trust around here. Starting with the King."

"Stop with the speech," she bit, "What do you want in return to keep your mouth shut? Money? Name your price already."

"Oh, no money for me. I want you, Feyre."

She balked at the admission, but his face remained solemn.

"You want me?" she sputtered.

But Feyre shouldn't be shocked. Rhysand was only asking what others had so many times before.

To be his mistress.

"Sorry to say, men have asked that before. But I cannot be bought," she growled, "Not even from the likes of you."

Rhysand balked slightly, but he recovered himself quickly. "I don't mean I want _you_ ," he clarified, "I meant what I said at dinner. I want you to come to my kingdom. I want to let the foolish King run things on his own."

She narrowed her eyes. "Why are you telling me this. I could reveal your plot, and you could be hanged for treason."

"I have my reasons. And besides, we both know you won't tell. Because you need the King to think your little attempt at seduction last night worked. So that I will side in his favor for that insufferable new treaty he's proposed."

"Is that it then? If I agree to go to your little kingdom, you'll keep my secret _and_ sign in the King's favor next month?"

"That is all I want, I promise," Rhysand said with a hand over his heart, "Now do we have a bargain?"

Feyre paused, measuring his words and his expression for truth. "Fine." She said, clenching her teeth when a smile started to spread across his lips. "I will go to the Night Court for a month only. I'll tell the King that I took you up on your offer you made at last night's dinner. But if you even think of crossing me, the King will know it all."

"Of course, my Lady," he bent his hips in a bow, "And as a gesture of good will, I promise never to speak of what transpired in my rooms last night. Even how you begged to be taken into my bed," Rhysand finished with a wink.

"Prick," Feyre mumbled under her breath as she gathered her skirts in a whoosh of fabric; hating how Rhysand thought he had won.

"—Oh and one last thing Feyre?" he called. She turned with a scowl, "Don't try hiding from me again, I will know it's you every time." Rhysand tapped beside his violet eyes.

She shot him a simpering smile. "Try not to get lost on your way back through the maze. But one can only hope."

With that, Feyre rushed her way back through the greenery, eager to rid herself of his smirking face.

But it was the sound of Rhysand's laughter that chased her long through the labyrinth.

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Feyre found the King in his throne room as she prepared to tell him of Rhysand's proposition. But she would not tell the King how the Prince was the one to blackmail her into it.

The King was looking over a map with his advisors as she entered; the piece of parchment taking up most of the table.

"Ah, hello, my flower," he called as he heard her approach. Feyre bit back her disgust at that name.

She was anything but a flower. Flowers were plucked only to be admired. And then they were left to wilt.

"Can I speak with you?"

The King dismissed his Lords with the flick of his hand. But Feyre noticed how they took their parchment with them.

"Well, I assume you came here with news?" he asked, "How did it go with our Prince last night?"

"There was no need to carry out the plan to fulfillment. The Prince agreed to side in your favor when the time comes."

"Did he?" The King folded his hands, "And this took no…special persuading from you?"

Feyre didn't let any emotion reach her face. But she felt a pit fester in her stomach at his innuendo.

But she managed to remained passive. "All he wants is for me to come to his Kingdom before the vote goes through," she answered.

"He wants you? What, as a mistress?" The King chuckled.

Feyre raised her chin. Even if he thought her body was her only way of persuading, she would not let it show how much it bothered her.

"No," Feyre said, "The Prince said the only requirement was going to his homeland. And nothing else."

"This is quite interesting." The King stroked his chin. "But it can't be a month. I simply can't spare you that long. Not with the treaty so close to being signed. It will have to be two weeks and nothing more."

She nodded. The last thing Feyre wanted was to be in Rhysand's country for an entire month.

"If you insist."

"This might present a unique opportunity for us." He revealed a wicked smile, motioning for her to leave. "Go and pack. I will find the Prince and tell him that he may have you, but he may not keep you."

Feyre inclined her head without a word. But she had to swallow the bile in her throat at his choice of words.

And she left the throne room not knowing whether to hate Rhysand for tricking her…

Or the King for seeming to plan it all.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Feyre went to her chambers next, hoping to find Nesta and Elain to tell them the news.

Only to find a sleuth of servants she did not recognize.

"Excuse me," Feyre called as she noticed them packing her belongings.

Every single one stood at her voice, "Oh, Lady Feyre!" One said before they all curtsied in unison, "Our Prince sent us to gather your things. You leave tomorrow morning."

"What? I was never told this!" Feyre sputtered, but they only went on with their duties.

But she noticed how they only packed her dearest possessions. Like books and journals. Not nearly enough clothes or jewels to last an entire two weeks in a foreign court.

"Why do you not pack any of my gowns?" Feyre asked as they started closing away the rest of the silk and satin into her closet.

The same servant answered, "The Prince insisted we only pack enough clothes v to last you the trip to the Night Court, and nothing more."

"Where is the Prince? I would like to speak to him."

"In his chambers, milady," The maid answered hesitantly, "But you should not disturb—"

Feyre did not let her finish before she was walking down that hall. She wanted to ask just how Rhysand got it in his head to boss her around.

And when she reached the chambers she had just only been the night previous, Feyre didn't bother knocking before she threw open the door.

She hadn't known what to expect, but Feyre definitely hadn't imagined to find the Prince sitting near the window, writing in what looked like a leather-bound journal.

She cleared her throat when he had yet to glance up.

"Rhysand, I need to speak with you."

He finally looked to her. But he remained seated.

"I see you no longer call me your Highness," he chuckled, "Is that because you are no longer trying to get into my bed?"

Feyre's eyes flared with anger. But she did well to push past the insult.

"You would do well to forget such an interaction ever happened. I have."

"Have you?" he grinned. But his smile diminished the longer she glared at him. "So what is it that you've come to say, Feyre?"

"I want to know why we leave so early. Why I cannot pack my own things?"

"As for your first question." He stood to face her, and his full height seemed to eat up all the air in the room. "We need to leave tomorrow while the seas remain docile. As to the issue with your light packing, I wanted to reduce some travel weight to hurry the journey. And since I never took you vain enough as to bring all your gowns with you anyhow, they will stay with the rest of the lot."

"It's not vanity," Feyre grumbled, "I merely want things familiar from home. I will be in a strange land after all."

His face knitted slightly. "You think my kingdom will be strange to you, Feyre?"

She straightened to the sound of her name on his lips. "Of course, I was born and raised here in the capitol."

Rhys pressed his lips, "Of course you were."

"So will you let me bring my dresses?" Feyre pressed, not having the strength to admit her dresses were only slice of normalcy for a girl who changed faces every day.

"No," he said, "They will only weigh down the carriage. And when we get to my lands you'll see how your northern fashion will only make you stick out like a sore thumb."

"I don't see how."

"I suppose you'll just have to trust me."

"Forgive me if I don't. But if I am truly to be seen as an ambassador, I think I should be allowed to bring what I want."

"Who said that you were to be my ambassador?" He gave her a slow grin at that, his eyes sparking with mischief.

Feyre only raised her chin, "Then what am I to you, pray tell, if not your ambassador, _your Highness_?" She waited for him to call her what others did.

Temptress.

Trickster.

Whore.

Rhysand only shrugged. "You're right, I suppose you are my ambassador. But I'm sorry, my answer remains. You may not bring your dresses."

"Why not?"

"It's simple." His voice turned firmer, "You will no longer be under your King's care. And those gowns are nothing but forced submission; something that you accepted because this society has normalized it. So why should I not ban such frivolous things?"

"And books and music boxes are not frivolities?" Feyre looked to his own cases that were stacked to the brim with such; determined to win this argument.

Rhysand shook his head with a groan, "It's useless arguing with you. Bring all your gowns if you want. But don't blame me when you do nothing but sweat in them."

"See? That wasn't so hard," Feyre smiled, "Best to remember this lesson for the rest of our trip."

Rhysand didn't bother answering as she left.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Promise me you'll write," Elain ordered her with another tight hug.

"I promise." Feyre sniffled to hide her tears.

It was that next morning, and Feyre was about to leave the Capitol for the first time in her life. And she was trying not to cry as she said goodbye to her sisters.

But Feyre was utterly failing.

"I will see you again. This is not forever," Feyre released herself from Elain's hold before looking to Nesta.

And taking her eldest sisters hand in hers, Feyre gave them a tight squeeze in hopes it would stop her weeping.

"Take care of each other. I will be back soon," Feyre promised, and Nesta only nodded to the three carriages of Rhysand's.

"Go. Have fun, Feyre. And don't waste time thinking of us. You owe it to yourself to have an adventure."

"Either way, I will be counting the days until I return." Feyre flew them a kiss as she made her way to the first carriage. And forcing the bile back down her throat, she prepared to spend the next two weeks in horrid heat with even more horrid company.

Thankfully, it appeared as though one of the three travel coaches would be Feyre's own.

But just as she was about to climb inside the carriage that would carry her away from the only home she had ever known, she felt a dark presence beside her.

"Feyre." She turned to see Rhysand's smirking face, "I hope you don't mind, but you will be riding with me."

"I was under the impression that I would be riding separate. I would feel more comfortable that way. And wouldn't that be much more suitable anyhow?" Feyre swallowed just thinking of being alone for two days with Rhysand's insufferable grin.

And how where their southern customs so much different that they didn't needed a chaperone?

"I'm afraid I insist."

"Why." Was there no limit to the rudeness of this man?

"Because I don't want you causing trouble elsewhere."

Her mouth fell. "Trouble, really? I resent that."

"You have to agree, Feyre, that you can be rather…stubborn at times." His lips shone his perfect teeth. "And believe it or not, most people are not as patient as I. That's why I personally volunteered to be your chaperone."

"I apologize for being such a burden, _your Highness_." Feyre narrowed her eyes. "But if I am as much trouble as you say, maybe it's better I just stay."

"That won't be necessary, but thank you for apologizing, _"_ he said before swiftly opening the carriage door, "After you, Feyre darling." He held out his hand in wait.

"Don't call me that." Feyre gathered her skirts as she climbed inside.

Rhysand laughed as he closed the door behind her. "Do you prefer I call you flower?" he teased.

Feyre's mouth shut with a snap.

"Comfortable?" he quirked a brow from the window when she had finally situated her layers of skirts.

"I will be if you stop speaking."

"It's always a delight with you." With that, Rhysand left her to the solitary of the carriage.

And as Feyre beheld the interior they would traveling in, a bit of her anxiety melted away.

The cabin was spacious and luxurious. Every inch of the interior wrapped with gold and green silks. Ever more opulent than any of her coaches under the King.

But her pleasure left as soon as Feyre remembered it would just be her and the Prince inside it.

Together.

Feyre tried listening to what Rhysand spoke of with his guards. And although she couldn't discern word for word he was saying, she noticed the tone slightly cautious.

The cabin shook a minute later as Rhysand joined her. Thankfully he took his seat on the opposite side of the cabin.

And with one swift crack of a whip that set the horses into a gallop, they were off.

Feyre stared out the window as the stone streets melted to dirt ones. And she sighed at what she had gotten herself into.

"If you scowl the entire time, your face might stay that way."

Feyre turned to see Rhysand's laughing eyes on her.

"Anything would be better than having to look at you," she returned.

His resounding chuckle was his answer.

Feyre was more than content to watch the trees blur by. Especially if it meant avoiding Rhysand.

But soon, she found the sound of the rickety carriage and the horses' hooves lulling her eyes shut.

And as they rode in silence, the sun started beating down through the window; leaving the cabin uncomfortably hot.

It was then Feyre's ears pricked to the sound of clothing brushing against skin.

As she turned, she watched Rhysand tug off his tunic to reveal his white undershirt, and the toned muscles underneath.

And she couldn't help but admire his broad shoulders as the fabric clung to them. Or how perfectly his abdomen seemed to taper to his hips as he crossed an ankle over his knee.

"See something you wish to catalog into your mind, Feyre darling?"

Her gaze snapped upwards, only to him grinning at her.

He had caught her staring.

"No," Feyre snapped too quickly, and his brows rose. So she fought to recover herself. "I was only wondering why you dress so colorfully. Perhaps you're compensating for something smaller?"

"Sadly no. I always was the largest in my family. In every aspect, actually," he answered with a wink.

"You're insufferable." Feyre spun back to the window. But it was no use.

Now she was thinking of Rhysand's manhood.

And unlike two nights ago when she had been trying to seduce him, it was now a most un-welcomed of image.

Actually, every ounce of attraction Feyre had once held for Rhysand dissipated the moment she realized he had tricked her.

The irony was not lost on Feyre. Of how she herself tried and failed to do the exact same thing to him.

But knowing she had fallen to someone else's tricks for once, well… it was a blow to her ego that made her rather irritable.

"If you say so," was he said.

She kept her eyes out the window, wondering how Feyre was going to deal with two days alone with Rhysand's unbearable arrogance.

"It helps if you sleep," his voice interrupted her thoughts.

She turned to find those violet eyes intent on her. "What?"

"It makes the time go faster that way," he explained. "You can lay down, I promise not to tell what the temptress of the north whispers in her sleep."

"No, thanks." Feyre shook off the fact that he seemed to have answered her silent thoughts.

Stretching out her legs, she longed to rid her constraining corset dress, but she never thought she would grow _that_ comfortable around the Prince.

"Why not?"

"If I sleep, how will I know you won't take advantage of me?" She gave him a simpering smile, her words meaning to catch him off guard.

But Feyre was shocked when his violet eyes darkened in anger.

"If that is your honest opinion of me, Feyre, we can stop this carriage now and you will ride elsewhere."

Feyre blinked at his sudden seriousness. "I was only teasing. I didn't mean to imply—

"I know what you were implying," he snapped, "And I'd appreciate if you never joke about that ever again."

She narrowed her eyes with a scorn.

But deep down, Feyre was embarrassed of herself. Never, had she seen the Prince grow so angry.

Usually Rhysand was always teasing or smiling. Always making a dark situation light.

But something she had said sent him over the edge.

"I'm sorry," she murmured rather sheepishly.

"Forget about it." Now Rhysand was the one staring out the window; avoiding her.

"I only meant—"

"—Feyre, please," he sighed, "Leave it there."

She measured his face for a moment before turning back to her own window.

And no matter how much she tried, Feyre couldn't forget the sound of her name on his lips.

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 **A/N Tell me what you think :)**


	4. Chapter 4

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She awoke a moment later with a jolt. Feyre wasn't sure what had stirred her from her slumber until she realized the carriage had stopped.

It took her a moment to rouse completely. But as she looked around their cabin, she saw Rhysand was awake as well.

But he gave no notice to her. Instead, his eyes were wide to the window, his back pressed to the seat as he craned his neck to see better.

Just when Feyre was about to ask what the hold-up was about, she heard shouting from outside.

A sudden body hit the ground outside her window. Feyre had to silence her scream as she beheld the driver groaning from the fall.

But when she turned to Rhysand, she watched him slowly slip a dagger from an invisible sheath in his boot.

"Rhys—" Feyre tried to whisper, but he pressed a finger to his lips as a sign to be silent. She swallowed her words with a nervous gulp.

Feyre instead beheld the Prince across from her. Whatever ruckus was going on outside, his shoulders were set as he waited. For what, she had no idea.

But his eyes were careful, calculating. The opposite of what Feyre felt at the moment.

She heard more indistinct shouting. And her heart thundered louder.

And Feyre finally understood what was happening.

They had been held up by roadside bandits. The criminals were most likely there to loot. But if they recognized Feyre or Rhysand, they would no doubt be taken for ransom.

And all they could to was wait.

The voices suddenly shifted louder, and she swore her heart was about to burst right out of her chest.

And even after spending a youth on the dirty streets of the capital; begging for food and paying with her body, Feyre had never felt more vulnerable.

More shouting came from outside. Rhysand only cursed under his breath, drawing himself away from the window to turn to her.

"Feyre, I need you to listen to me."

She barely managed to, she was trembling so hard.

"Turn into a plain face now," he murmured, "And if someone asks who you are, say you are a handmaiden, and no one else. No matter what they do to me, you must lie, Feyre. Tell me you understand."

"I understand."

Rhysand put a firm hand on hers, and Feyre realized that her entire body was shaking.

"Everything will be fine, I promise," he vowed. And something in those violet eyes: either determination or blatant stubbornness, made Feyre believe him.

And then he was gone.

She heard the clashing of metal a moment later. And the unmistakable sound of men fighting for their lives.

Feyre looked around the cabin, searching for anything she could use as a weapon. But she came up short.

So all she could do was remain silent, and wait like nothing more than a sitting duck.

"He said you'd be fine," Feyre whispered to herself.

Either seconds or minutes dragged by. Feyre imagined the many ways Rhysand would be struck down. Or what they would do to her once he was…

Feyre couldn't take it any longer. She had to see what was happening outside. If Rhysand lost, she had to be ready to flee.

As she peeked outside, Feyre was careful to keep low. But as soon as she saw what was transpiring, she couldn't help but gasp.

Nearly six dirty men fought for their lives. Their clashing swords and fast feet spiraled in a whirlwind of dust as they all fought a single opponent.

Rhysand.

And even if the Prince was severely outmatched, Rhysand continued to dip and swerve and block each attack with sheer ferocity.

For with each body Rhysand struck down, he seemed to forge stronger. And Feyre's own heart lifted lighter.

But the more she watched the Prince fight, the more she realized that this man lived up to his reputation.

And more.

Rhysand still only fought with that slim dagger. But he was so swift and cunning in his style, that he made it seem an advantage over the other men's heavy swords.

And perhaps at that moment, Feyre should be fleeing, or helping in the fight. Yet all she could do was watch in awe; of how rapid each movement was, or how expertly Rhysand carried himself…

But then the Prince barely avoided a slice to the shoulder. Feyre saw the edge of the sword nearly cut Rhysand's arm before he maneuvered elsewhere.

And though he was ultimately unharmed, Feyre couldn't help but shriek from seeing the near blow.

And then all the fighting halted.

Her scream had caused Rhysand to break concentration as a criminal kicked the dagger from his hands. Another punched him across the face.

She was frozen to watched. And then one second Feyre was inside the carriage, the next moment, she was being hauled out and onto the ground.

She blinked into the harsh sunlight, stumbling to catch her balance. But then she was falling, the soft pine crinkling underneath her feet.

Someone had tripped her.

Feyre's arms barely came out to catch herself; the brown ground careened towards her face as she winced in preparation for the pain.

But then she was no longer falling. No, she was actually going the opposite way.

Because another pair of hands caught her before her body could meet the ground.

And these hands were not like any Feyre had ever felt before. They were warm and solid. And she knew in an instant, who they belonged to.

Rhysand.

Feyre spun to apologize, but he was already being hauled away from her.

"Not so fast, your Highness," The men cackled when Feyre outstretched her arm. Rhysand's eyes were solemn as they pushed him to his knees.

There were no words between them as her eyes met. His violet gaze remained calculated as he nodded once.

But before she could warn him, a sword pommel struck him in the head.

He fell to the ground like a limp sack, and Feyre let out another scream.

The men laughed harder. Feyre ran towards Rhysand, but they caught her by the stomach. She fought and slashed against whoever held her. But it was no use.

"Let us go!" she yelled.

"I don't think so!" The man announced as he set her on her feet. He smelled of dirt and dead animals as he brought her to his chest, "It seems we know why the Prince had fought so hard. He was protecting his prize."

"Let. Us. Go," she ordered, doing her best to rid herself of his hold. But it was useless. He was so strong.

"Come on sweetheart, we mean _you_ no harm," he cooed as the others started to laugh. There were four bandits in total. Two others lay unconscious or dead on the ground.

Put there by Rhysand.

The Prince himself was started to come to. And Feyre could do nothing but convey with her eyes how sorry she was.

"Don't look to him, darling," one bandit laughed. "He can't help you anymore. Only we can."

Feyre clenched her teeth as they all started to laugh.

And even if she had spoiled everything. And Rhysand _couldn't_ help her, that didn't mean Feyre wasn't going to help herself.

So with all her strength, Feyre aimed her elbow into the stomach of the man that held her.

He fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes. But Feyre could only get two strides before another restrained her.

"Quite the feisty one, aren't you," The man called as he held her. This one smelled of blood and dirt.

"If one of you even thinks of hurting her, I swear to the Gods you will regret it," Rhysand groaned. Feyre winced to see the side of his temple oozing with blood.

And it all happened because she had screamed.

She turned her attention to their convoy. Feyre didn't know where the other carriages and guardsmen had gone. Perhaps the rest of them they had escaped…

And despite her current situations, she sent a silent prayer thanking the Gods that the others were at least safe.

But as she looked around the scene before her, she saw that their own driver was either lying unconscious or dead. And her throat closed in fear.

"Who are you, girl?" The one holding her asked. His face was covered in scars and grime. But Feyre's eyes only flashed to Rhysand's.

It was then she felt a sudden flash of pain across her left cheek, followed by a roaring in her ears. They had slapped her.

"You will answer me when I speak to you." He said.

"You rutting bastard!" Rhysand roared against his restraints.

Feyre pressed her lips against the tears she felt forming in her eyes. She would not cry. She would not show them how frightened she was.

"If you want money and jewels, take it." Rhysand heaved, "But leave her be."

The leader only sneered at the offer. "What good is your money when we have the King's ward?"

Feyre watched the same horror cross Rhysand's features as it did hers.

Their secret was out.

"That's right, Prince," the bandit went on, "We know you took the King's ward as your mistress. And If I'm putting the pieces together correctly. That means you are her." The bandit laughed when Feyre's face turned white.

 _Mistress._

The King had been right. Rhysand hadn't wanted Feyre as a dignitary to his country.

She was merely his whore.

"You know nothing," Rhysand spat, straining against the arms that held him. But he did not look at Feyre as he said, "But if you tell me who you work for, I might let you live."

All of the men chuckled in unison, the sound reminding Feyre of what it was like to be alone on the streets those six years ago.

"I think we have exactly what we want, eh boys?" The leader grinned as he pivoted to her, "Although I must admit from the stories I've heard, I thought the King's temptress would be prettier."

Feyre managed to silence the words she wished to spit: that she was anything but the King's temptress. Or the Prince's mistress.

But it would only sound pathetic.

"But perhaps, you still hold value to us," the man came closer to trail a disgusting finger down her cheek. He turned to his men with a knowing smile; a smile Feyre had seen too many times in her life.

"I'm going to kill you all," Rhysand all but growled, "I'm going to slit your throats like the pigs you are." His voice was dark with lethal promise. So much that Feyre shuddered from the sound of it.

But the bandits only laughed harder.

So she made sure her jaw was set when she looked at the leader to say, "You all can go to hell."

"Oh, I wish you wouldn't speak in such a way, flower," The leader said, inhaling her perfume. Her stomach turned from the foulness of his touch; of that pet name.

Feyre looked to Rhysand. His nostrils flared at the sight, those violet eyes a harbinger of death itself.

"Everything will be okay." Rhysand promised.

"The Prince is right. Everything will be okay. But not for you," The leader cackled as Feyre looked up to his gnarled face, "What a price you will make us, flower. It will be enough for—"

But the man's words only turned into gurgles as a dagger coated his throat with red.

Blood spurted and pooled from the open wound in his neck. It soaked soak the soft dirt beneath. And his body fell to the ground with a thud.

Feyre did nothing but stare.

Only when she managed to pull her eyes upward, did she find Rhysand heaving with anger. His blade was covered in the proof of his deed.

Somehow, Rhysand had ridden himself of his guards. For each of them now bled out next to their master; a matching slice along each of their throats.

And the more Feyre took in the sea of red, the more she started to shake; her body trembling in a way she couldn't control.

"Feyre, look at me."

She dimly heard Rhysand's voice calling after her, but her eyes were glued to the man who was just holding her a moment ago. Now he was dead.

Everyone was dead.

"Feyre."

She flinched when Rhysand took hold of her shoulders, forcing her eyes to his, "You're in shock. It's completely normal, but I need you to breathe."

She hadn't realized she had stopped taking in air, but sure enough, she gobbled it to her lungs a moment later. But it did nothing to ease her spinning head.

"Alright, good," he took her hands in his, "Now squeeze my fingers for me."

She did, and his warmth seeped into her skin.

"Good, very good," he said, stepping a bit closer as he held her shivering palms, "This is real, and you are alive," Rhysand squeezed her hand in proof, " _I_ am real, and you are safe."

She nodded dimly, unable to speak; unable to form even a single thought as she was too busy staring at the blood seeping into ground.

"Now can you do me a favor? Can you wait in the carriage? I have to clean this up."

Feyre glanced to where somehow, their horses stood in wait for them. And thankfully, the driver was slowly gaining consciousness. He wasn't dead after all.

"I think so."

"Good," Rhysand nodded, watching warily as she turned, "There should be a blanket under the carriage's seats. It will help with the shivering."

Feyre didn't answer as she stumbled back to the coach, doing her best to erase the image of Rhysand's hands caked in blood.

But to no avail.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Feyre held herself for, she didn't know how long. The image of Rhysand's red coated fingers were the only thing she saw as she waited.

Until the click of the carriage door snapped her from her thoughts.

"The driver is alright," Rhysand said, the sun nearly sinking below the horizon by that time.

Thankfully his hands were clean, and he seemed to have changed his shirt as well, "I sent him to inform the others of what happened. I made us a camp for the night."

Feyre only nodded, hating the way he was looking at her.

"I'm sorry you had to see all of that."

"I'm fine."

"I never said you weren't."

"Then stop looking at me like that," she snapped.

"I'm sorry."

"You should be sorry!" Feyre shouted.

She knew she shouldn't be taking her anger out on him. But they ended up in this situation somehow. And it was easy to blame the man in front of her.

And things those bandits had said; about Feyre being nothing but Rhysand's mistress… it was ingrained into her head.

He let out a sigh. "I am sorry you had to see that. But who do you think sent them?"

"No one sent them!" she said, "They were bandits set out to make a fortune for their own profit!"

Rhysand shook his head, "Don't be an idiot, Feyre. They knew far too much to be just any band of thieves. Your King hired those men to kill me. And force you back into his arms. But then, I think you already knew that."

He left her to the carriage. But Feyre was not done.

She all but fell out of the cabin as she stalked after him, hot on his trail. Her temper equally so.

"Do you even hear yourself?" she called. Rhysand just kept walking.

So Feyre went on, "You just don't want to admit this is partly your fault. You don't want to admit just _why_ those men thought I was your _whore_."

He spun to her, and the sudden anger in those violet eyes made her pause, "I'm just telling you what I know," he said, "You can disagree with me until the end of time. But those rumors were not spread by me. And only because I've once known men like that, I also know how they operate. And they worked for something greater than personal gain."

"How would you know that?" she pressed, suddenly terrified that those men, whoever they were, had friends and she would never be safe again, "Who's to say more will not come back? Who's to say we are safe?"

Rhysand walked on. "We're safe, Feyre. I will no longer be caught off guard. And definitely not by the likes of such piss poor robbers," he spat.

"I'm sure those men had friends. Will they not come back looking for them—for us?"

"No," Rhys groaned as a tiny camp came into view, "No one else is coming back. But our travel plans will have to be altered."

"Why?"

"Because," He let out a strangled breath, "I just sent a rather frank message to their employer."

"How can you be so calm?" Feyre accused, "I'm still now sure how you were able to kill over six men!"

Rhysand only paused. "Come and eat some dinner, Feyre. Then we can talk."

"Why should I do anything you say? Give me one good reason I shouldn't turn back home this very second."

"Because no matter what you think of me. I gave you my word to take you to the Night Court. And you agreed to that same bargain."

She scowled at his answer, "Only because the King needs your retched vote. Not as any favor to you."

"Thanks for the reminder, I was starting to forget." He gave Feyre a tight smile, gesturing for her to lead, "Now if you please, it's going to be dark soon and you'll want to be near the fire."

"Fine." Feyre grumbled, roughly gathering her skirts. But she nearly tripped over a log in the process.

Rhysand glanced down to her dirt-stained dress. "Do you want to change?"

"I would if I had anything to change into. But someone wouldn't let me to bring my own clothes."

"I told you that you could bring them."

"Well I didn't," Feyre snapped, "As a sign of good will, I decided to listen to you. Now look where that has brought me!" She glared backwards: to where blood still coated into the earth.

That struck him silent.

Rhysand instead, led her to an overturned log as a seat. Feyre took it. And glancing around, she observed the camp he had made for them.

The fire was large and crackling with warmth. There was a kettle of water boiling for tea, and he had killed some sort of small animal that was now roasting over the spit.

"You will have to eat with your fingers, I hope that's alright," Rhysand quirked a brow at her hands that sat folded in her lap. Feyre raised her chin.

"I will have you know I grew up in the slums. I know what it is to be dirty." To make her point, Feyre swiped a nearby knife and dug out herself a lob of meat from the cooking carcass.

Then sitting down with a plop, she made an effort to take bigger bites than needed. And even though the animal was gamey and greasy, it silenced her rumbling stomach.

"I stand corrected," he chuckled before taking his own slab.

They ate in silence for a while, Rhysand keeping to himself while Feyre couldn't help but observe him.

It was so different than the first dinner table they had met. _He_ was different.

Rhysand was not mere smirks and innuendo like Feyre had once thought. He had skill and a fierceness to back all that ego.

And no matter how she tried, she couldn't rid herself of the image of Rhysand dislodging all those men.

There had been so many, and he had swiped past them in only a moment.

All to save her.

Resolve and skill. More traits of his to add to the ever-growing pile.

But what bothered her, was how easy it would have been for Rhysand to let those men take her.

He could have simply ransomed Feyre and been on his way. Then he would have succeeded in taking away the King's pet, while gaining some gold for the trouble.

Yet Rhysand had fought for her; in risk of his own life, and his conscience.

But that didn't erase the fact that he _had_ killed men. Without blinking actually. And seemingly, without remorse.

So shaking off the feeling of blood on her hands, Feyre rose from her perch.

Rhysand's head perked up instantly.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to into the woods to go to relieve myself, is that all right with you?" Feyre waited for his answer; knowing she was being rather short.

But she was angry.

And despite it all that horror and death she had no part in, she also felt guilty.

Because it felt as those men's blood—as evil as they were—was her own for tangling herself in a game she didn't understand.

Perhaps a private match between Rhysand and the King that she wasn't fit to participate in.

Rhysand merely went back to his meal, "I would tell you to hurry up. But instead, I'll just remind you, that there are wolves in these woods. Be wary."

Feyre didn't answer. Teasing or no, she would take the chance; much rather preferring a pack of canines rather than the man in front of her.

But she did not have to relieve herself at all. No, she was going to find the stream she had heard earlier.

Feyre so desperately needed to wash the phantom blood she felt on her hands before she retched from the feeling.

Thankfully, the sky was lit by a pale moon as she stumbled through the forest.

But annoyingly, Rhysand had been right when it came to her dresses only being a burden. Because in that moment, Feyre would have loved nothing but trousers.

Still, she managed to find the stream, albeit with her ears alone.

And crouching to the bubbling water, Feyre sought to wash the invisible grime from her fingers.

Yet no matter how much she tried, it was as if the feel of blood would not leave her.

It was suddenly it was as if she never left the streets. Never got past the bowing and the scraping, all to find herself alone in the world once more.

But a snap of a twig made her jolt upright.

"What are you doing?" Rhysand called from down-stream. He was moving towards her in a way that made Feyre feel like a fawn he was scared of spooking.

Perhaps there were wolves in the woods after all. But Feyre was surely not to be the fawn.

"It's good to know you have no thought to my privacy," she grumbled, hiding her hands in her skirts. But his eyes caught the movement.

"You wanted to wash it off, didn't you?" he said, stopping a healthy distance away. But Rhysand was still close enough that Feyre could see the shadow of his features catch the moonlight.

And it was as if he was more beautiful because for it.

"I wish a great many things, right now," she said. "I wish I never saw those men slaughtered. I wish I never agreed to come with you."

"I wish those men didn't have to die," he agreed, "But I could not let you be put in harm's way, either."

"I—" she blinked past the honesty in his words, "I thought we lived in a better world than this. I thought it had changed after I left the slums. But I was wrong."

"I know," Rhysand turned his head to the sky, his face turning wistful as his eyes reflected the sparkling stars. "I won't insult you by saying those bandits are a rarity in this world. But I can tell you that we can do something about it."

"How."

"That's why I'm bringing you to the Night Court. Despite what the rumors tell, or what you believe, I don't want you as my mistress. I want you to help me. Not by fear and cruelly like the King, but care and passion."

Feyre paused. Hearing the conviction in his words struck her speechless. "I hope you kept that fire warm while you were busy sneaking up on me," was all she said.

Rhysand gave a wry chuckle. And the tense atmosphere dissipated with the trickling river.

"Come on then," he said with the tilt of his head, "I saved a spot just for you."

They returned to the quaint fire, and as the breeze fell through the trees, Feyre shivered for real this time.

"You said you lived in the slums," Rhysand started as he sat across from her, "Tell me, how did you become a royal ward of the King?"

"Luck, I suppose," Feyre sighed, "The King found me begging one day. I don't know why he chose me. Heaven only knows what I must have looked to him: a girl all of fourteen selling her body to the highest bidder. I always assumed that it was some God or another, that finally took pity me and my sisters, and made the King intervene."

"You believe in such things as Gods?"

"I believe there is something else controlling the world, yes. And I believe there is good in everyone. Even in the King you hate so much." She eyed with him with meaning.

"Don't think me full of nothing but hatred, Feyre," Rhysand scoffed, "Now hearing what the King did for you, I appreciate that. But it doesn't mean I appreciate all that he does."

"And what has he done?"

Rhysand looked to Feyre then, his gaze unyielding. "He took something very important from me."

Her skin bristled from his dark voice. Feyre only wrapper her arms around herself for warmth.

"The King cares not for stolen goods. Especially from you court," she said instead, "Or else I would have heard about it."

"The King is good at hiding a lot of things, Feyre."

"How would you know?"

His shoulders went taught. "Because I have seen a lot of parts of our world. Good and Evil. And in every crevice of evil, the King had has his hands in."

"What kind of evil?"

"To begin with," Rhysand sighed, "Thieves and assassins and extortionists have all had dealings with the Northern crown. Not to mention the crime of him guilting you for your magic."

"Really? You think he guilted me?" Feyre sputtered. Rhysand nodded. "One could argue that you did the same. You blackmailed here against my will, did you not?"

"Yes, well—" Rhysand wiped a rough hand down his face. "I wanted a way to get you from under his control, while also seemingly keeping your allegiance."

"Am I supposed to believe that?" she laughed. But Rhysand's face turned dark.

"The King is fouler than you could ever know, Feyre. I would have done anything to make it look like you still belonged to his side. In order to keep you safe."

She bristled slightly. "I do belong to his side." Feyre said it as a reminder more to herself than to him. Rhysand seemed to buy it as much as she did.

"Do you?" He shone a slow smile, and Feyre recoiled.

"This is all so rich coming from an enemy sovereign. You said yourself you've had dealings in your own dose of corruption. So what makes you so much better than the King?

"I admit my past is not as clean as I would like," Rhysand grumbled, "But as soon as we reach my country, you will see it all. Unlike the King, I would never keep you in the dark. Then you can decide for yourself, what side you are on."

His gaze met hers through the dancing fire. And it wasn't the heat of the flames that made her look away.

"You think yourself above him. Above us," Feyre straightened. For she knew how the Prince of the Night Court tricked and deceived for his own gain. Perhaps that was what he was doing right then, with her.

"Am I above using cruelty and fear over my people?" he quirked, "Yes. But I have never held myself above anyone. Quite the opposite actually."

"But its more than that, isn't it?" Feyre said. He only waited.

So she went on, "I think you wanted to rid the King of his prize and gain your own in the process." She paused for Rhysand to confirm what everybody else thought.

Feyre was used to being scowled at from her own court. For what she was.

Nothing but a glorified whore meddling in things she didn't understand.

But Rhysand said none of that.

"At first, perhaps," he confessed quietly, "Maybe I wanted to see what the King would do once his tool was taken from him. But now I want more." He glanced to her. "I want you to be free."

"No one is free," Feyre scoffed, "Those men you killed were not free. The King himself is not free. And no matter where I go, I will always have a duty to my magic and my homeland."

Something passed over his features then. Perhaps sadness or frustration that Feyre had such a mind-set.

"You forget who I am, Feyre. I am not what the King has told you _._ The world does not start and end with the North. There is more to have."

Feyre met his glare, rising from the log to find her bedroll he had laid out for her.

She suddenly couldn't bear to be near him.

Because Rhys was speaking as if he knew her better than herself.

"Forgive me if I remain skeptical," Feyre said, settling herself on the ground, "I think that you heard of my reputation, put two and two together and threatened me with nothing more than an empty threat to hurt me, and the King."

"I'm not your enemy, Feyre. We are on the same side."

She turned her back to him. "You may have saved me from the King's disappointment by striking this deal, but I will not forget how you got me here. You blackmailed me and took me from my sisters. So we are not on the same side."

Feyre might only have said it to keep him at arm's length. Because even if she refused it aloud, she felt deep in her bones that they were one in the same.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She awoke the next morning with an ache in her back and head. And just about everywhere else she could think of.

But Feyre eventually rose with a scowl to her useless bedroll. It would have been better if she slept on rocks.

Yet she had been comfortably warm all through the night. And as Feyre glanced to see Rhysand's blanket and jacket atop her own, she knew why.

"Good morning," Rhysand called from across camp. Feyre looked up with a groan.

"I presume you got all your beauty sleep?" his violet eyes gleamed with sarcasm, as she fought not to roll her eyes.

"Do you ever stop your incessant teasing?"

"I'd hate for you to think I only value you for your magic."

"Oh Gods, don't tell me I've hurt your feelings," Feyre collected up her bedroll, as he packed his own things. "Remind me again, who tricked me here while the rest of my country assumes I'm nothing but your whore?"

"That's what _they_ think, Feyre. A filthy rumor started by _your_ King."

His words made Feyre go quiet. Perhaps Rhysand was speaking truth. Perhaps the King had started the story in a last effort to sully Rhysand's reputation.

But she would still be smart to remain wary of the charming Prince for her own good.

They ate breakfast in tense silence. Feyre perhaps, taking longer than needed only to avoid talking to him.

Rhysand excused himself to pack up more of their camp. So quickly and efficiently that she wondered if this was not his first time having to rely on nature alone.

She only spoke after noticing Rhysand packing their things on a single horse, not on the back of the carriage.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm packing," he paused to look over his shoulder, "You could help if you want."

"Forgive me, _your_ _Highness,"_ Feyre drawled his title, _"_ But I meant, why are we not taking the carriage?"

Rhysand turned to her, making a show of looking all around, "Unless you see the driver and another horse hiding somewhere I don't, we'll have to continue on horseback."

"Prick," she ground out.

"We've already discussed my prick, remember? Don't tell me you want to go over it again," he replied with a grin. She ignored it.

"And just how am I going to ride in this dress? Is there a sidesaddle hiding somewhere in all that luggage?"

"No, but I packed you some of my sister's trousers in the carriage storage that you can borrow. I warned you that your dresses would be useless."

"How is a Princess even allowed to have a pair of trousers?"

Rhysand tightened the saddle, "Night Court fashion is different than the North. Women can wear whatever they want."

"Alright then. I guess for the sake of traveling, I have no choice."

"Glad we agree on something," Rhysand said before striding to the end of the carriage.

Feyre waited as he rifled through a pack to find a pair of flowing pants and a matching long-sleeved shirt.

They were unmistakably feminine; with silken sleeves and velvet cuffs and trousers made in a similar fashion.

"Thank you," she mumbled, trying not to admire the rich hues of the outfit as he threw them her way.

But she couldn't help but notice they matched the embroider of Rhysand's black tunic. He must have changed before she woke. And now her sunset orange and turquoise blue were identical to his.

And she also couldn't help but to notice the garments were exactly her size. As if they had never belonged to the Princess at all.

But packed specifically with Feyre in mind.

"You can change over there, I even promise not to look." Rhysand called. His smile said otherwise.

Feyre leveled an unimpressed glare before stomping into the woods. But all irritation left her as she slipped on her shirt and pants. The fabric was even softer than it looked.

It had Feyre sighing as they brushed over her skin; far better than the scratching ruffles of her layered northern dresses.

"Ready?" Rhysand quirked a brow as she emerged. He was leaning against a horse whose coat rivaled the night itself, "I'm sorry to say that we'll be riding bareback. But as you so nicely pointed out before, I packed no saddles for the occasion."

"I assume we're doubling up as well."

"Promise to keep your hands to yourself, and I'll try to do the same."

"That should be no problem," Feyre said as she prepared to mount. But paused as she remembered she had never been a favored rider. Rhysand noticed her hesitation.

"Anything wrong?"

"Nothing you can help with," Feyre said. But she still gulped at the height of the great beast.

She had never been a marks horsewoman, by any means. And when Feyre did ride, she rode side saddle.

But she would not let Rhysand know her shortcomings.

Yet as Feyre put her hands over the steed in preparation, she felt his strong hand grasp her knee and push her onto the horse in one swift move.

The silk trousers did nothing to hide Rhysand's burning touch from reaching her skin underneath.

No man had ever touched her and brought forth such a reaction. Perhaps it was because she was used to men grabbing and pulling at what they wanted.

But Rhys climbed up behind her like nothing had happened.

The move was smooth enough to tell her he was not only an accomplished warrior, but a horseman as well.

And Feyre could do nothing but inhale sharply when she felt him seated behind her. Gods, he was a nothing but a wall of warmth and muscle as his arms came around her to grab the reigns.

Her treacherous siren was unable but sigh against him. And Feyre shivered again.

"Warm enough?" he chuckled.

"Do you have to sit so close?"

"Is it bothering you?"

"Let's just get going already, I'm anxious to get out of these horrid trousers." The cutting remark was meant to put him in his place.

Rhys merely bent to grab a handful of the fabric that covered her calves, the silk bunching in his hands as he said with mock confusion,

"If these are bothering you, then I can't image what those lace underthings did to your sensitive skin the night you came to my rooms."

It was an effort for Feyre's siren not to melt as the warmth of his palms seeped through the cloth. But his smart reminder of the night she tried and failed to seduce him had Feyre quickly elbowing him in the stomach.

Rhys let out a muted groan. Feyre smiled over her shoulder, "You broke your word by speaking of that night, Prince," she said, "So take that as a warning to never do it again."

He managed to let out a chuckle through his cough, "Then by all means Feyre darling, let's get going."

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 **A/N Tell me what you think! And thank you for reading and reviewing :)**


	5. Chapter 5

They rode in silence most of the way. And with each hour that passed, Feyre observed the trees grow less harsh and more exotic.

But eventually the heat caused her to sweat through her clothing. And the furnace of a man behind her did nothing to ease her strain. Feyre could take it no longer.

"How long—" she gasped through the choking humidity; still atop their horse, "—Will it take to get to your country at this pace?"

It had been nearly five hours of traveling on a horse bareback. And although Feyre was tougher than most, even she had to admit the mix of heat and strained riding was wearing on her.

But apparently it had not fazed Rhysand at all. She could practically hear the smile in his voice as he answered, "I told the messenger to not bother waiting for us to in Bahari City. We should be there within night. And then we will take a ship to the Night Court from there."

"Across the great sea?"

"I hope you don't get sea sick."

"I wouldn't know. I've never left the capitol," Feyre said, and Rhysand went still.

"You're telling me you've never traveled to a single coast? Not even to see the east ocean?" his voice was careful; calculating.

"In all my years in service for the King, he has never let me leave the city. But I guess I never really wanted to." She was sure to keep her head high, in case Rhysand found any weakness in the words. But he just let out a light hum.

"Tell me then," he said, "What have you heard of the Night Court?"

"Um—" Feyre went silent. Knowing fully of the rumors that spoke the south as a lawless land; strewn with crime and poverty.

She opened her mouth to say something to the opposite. But Rhysand had already caught her hesitation.

"You'd be surprised to know that my homeland boasts nothing of the rumors," he said, "Quite to the contrary actually."

"If you say so."

Feyre waited for his teasing: of how the most well-paid servant of the King had never traveled in her life.

But Rhysand said nothing as he nudged her back, and a glittering city came into view.

"Well, now you can finally see for yourself," he murmured.

And Feyre wished for both their sakes, she would despise the Night Court as much as the King did.

But Feyre doubted it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Bahari City was a merchant port on the edge of the Northern Continent. But it might as well have been part of Rhysand's kingdom with the number of southerners that did business there.

It hummed with people of every shade and color, and all Feyre could do was watch with wide eyes as her and Rhysand passed shop after shop.

He ignored their glorious colors and smells. But Feyre couldn't help but stare in awe.

Most businesses were filled with strange baked goods and candy. While others were selling the most beautifully colored jewelry and fabrics she had ever seen.

And not only were the number of the shops overwhelming, but the number of people crowding the streets.

There were so many children, husbands, and wives. But everyone seemed happy and healthy, merely spending the day shopping among the excitement.

It was a far cry from the King's North: where guards watched everything with hard eyes, eager to report to their superior.

Here so close to the south, men inclined their heads to each woman, instead of leering or shouting. Women chatted happily to one another instead of remaining silent. Children squealed and ran from joy, not fear.

And Feyre had to blink at the scene. At the ease of these people. It was just so strange.

It was clear how this town, although in the north, profited mainly from the Night Court. The trade must have given them a separate, bursting economy.

And most of all, safety from the King's wrathful taxes.

But most noticeably, no one scorning each other, no matter the shade of skin. They valued each other. And Feyre was speechless.

"Bahari city is world renowned for its chocolates," Rhysand suddenly said, "And fittingly so, since it matches your skin." He must have noticed how Feyre's eyes glazed over onto a sweets shop. She turned back to him with surprise; his eyes sparked with mischief as he added, "Your real skin, that is."

Feyre rolled her eyes to that. She had only just put on an anonymous face before arrival. One that had been carefully chosen, no matter's Rhysand disapproval.

But she couldn't help it. Feyre was so used strategizing of the good and bad of each form she took. So much so, she actually asked Rhysand for his opinion on the matter.

He had only pursed his lips when she asked for his input on the matter; his response had been the least help of all.

Rhysand had told Feyre to appear as herself.

"Perhaps you should buy me some chocolate, if you say it suits me," she quirked a brow at him. Rhysand eyed her with wariness. No doubt, he knew that the suggestion was not because of her desire for sweets.

No, Feyre could see in his wary gaze that the clever Prince knew her plans. She wanted to escape his care.

That perhaps if they did stop, then Feyre would be able to disappear in the crowd. Then she would go back to the King.

And Rhysand's pawn would be lost.

"Next time," he answered. Feyre pressed her mouth shut at his response; that there would no next time. After this, she would never be allowed to leave the capitol if the King had a say in it. And the King's last word was everything.

Still, ever since those bandits had taken upon them, Feyre had been looking for opportunities to slip away unnoticed.

Deal or no, Rhysand was too smart not to sense her unwillingness. He was pretending all was well. But only a fool would think Feyre was happy with their deal.

She had been idiot enough to give into his threats and black mail, but she would be an even bigger idiot to stay with a man that seemed to attract so much danger.

And so Feyre would keep her eyes out for an opening. And by the look of the busy streets of Bahari city, it would come sooner rather than later.

But as they traveled through cobble stone streets, Feyre noticed the faces that passed them.

And for perhaps, once in her life, she was not the main attraction.

For it was Rhysand who was stared at, or whispered about, as they walked through the winding streets.

Each southerner looked at the Prince with a mix of awe and respect. The Northerners looked at him with curiosity.

"Keep close," was all Rhysand said, continuing to weaved their way through town. But he gave Feyre no choice as he took her hand in his.

Having discarded their horses and heavier belongings at the outer-rim stables, they were now in search of the main hotel.

Finally, they reached the city center where they could rest before departing tomorrow.

And as Feyre observed the place they were to stay, she sent a silent prayer to the gods that she would have a separate room.

Maybe then she could have a bath and then escape the Prince's custody under the shade of night.

But when they entered through the grand pillars to the lobby, Feyre found it was thriving with patrons on their way out to enjoy town.

Everyone stared at the Prince as they passed. Then to Feyre.

There would be too many eyes to escape that night. She would have to take another shape-shift if she wished to go unrecognized as the Prince's guest.

And Feyre hardly had enough energy to walk one more step, let alone transform into a different mask.

Travel had worn her. And now due to her most recent form change, Feyre's power would only refill with a hearty meal and a full night of sleep.

And by that time, her window for escape would have closed.

Yet as she felt the familiar feeling of attention on her skin, they were not the usual looks Feyre was used to in the North's capitol.

No. These were much different.

Because these people were looking at her as not a property of the King, or some magical temptress to be feared. But the mysterious guest of the Prince.

Rhysand seemed to pay no mind as he put a light hand on her lower back to lead them past the lobby.

"Come on," he said, "I have a gift for you." He led them further down the corridor. Feyre let out a sigh at the grime she felt piled upon her skin.

"I hope it's the gift of a cleanliness. Or sleep," she moaned. Feyre had spent too much time being lavished in a palace; she had lost the grit the streets had given her.

Rhysand cast a glance over his shoulder with a budding smile, "I just told you I had a gift for you. And yet, all I hear is grumbling."

"It's just—I would _kill_ for a bath right now," Feyre half-way lied. What she would really kill for was a bit of privacy so she could slip out unnoticed.

Rhysand only smiled as they stopped in front of a pair of double doors, "Then, thankfully, there will be no need for you to go to such lengthy measures. Because that is exactly what I have given you."

Feyre could not respond before Rhysand revealed the most lavish bathing chamber she had ever seen. She stepped past him, entering the great stone room with nothing but a slack face.

"Thank the Gods," she whimpered under her breath as aromas of what she recognized as lavender and jasmine lulled her senses.

Feyre had been joking about the bath. But as soon as she saw the room lit with candles and completely empty for her to enjoy in solitude, she loosened with relief.

"No need to thank them," Rhysand said, "I just couldn't bear one more moment of you smelling like a pig."

She spun to find him leaning against the door jam with a grin; just waiting for Feyre to get up in arms from the insult.

"Unless you're going to help me undress, Prince, I think you can leave now," she crooned; happy when his smile fell.

"That's cruel, even for you, Feyre" he said, "But supper is at seven in the main hall if you wish to join. In the meantime, Nuala and Cerridwen will attend to you," he responded flatly just as two maids dressed in similar fashion to Feyre appeared.

It was Feyre's turn for her smile to fall when she saw the maids. How they knew to arrive at that moment, she knew not. But she knew their purpose other than helping.

They were to be her bodyguards, in case she tried to leave.

"I don't need help," she called as Rhysand went to leave. He only paused, that insufferable grin back on his face as he turned to say,

"Enjoy your bath, Feyre darling. And don't bother trying anything more than washing." He winked at her sour expression.

Feyre just stuck her tongue in response. But he was already gone.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Feyre managed to enjoy her bath. Every second of it.

But even if she never wanted to leave the hot bubbles, or the peaceful quiet that only stone and water could bring, she thought that she should at least give her body some real food for once.

After her soaking, the two maids—or chaperones she should say— dressed Feyre in a similar outfit Rhysand had first given her on the road.

But this one was a deep blue with gold embellishments. Obviously meant for more of a formal setting.

Feyre should have felt slightly exposed with a tunic that fell just under her ribs; the rest of her midriff was exposed. But she didn't.

More so, her bath had given Feyre enough energy to transform. This face was more suitable to blending into the city, giving her the anonymity she needed to leave un-noticed.

It wasn't entirely her own face. Only southern enough to blend in with the sea of brown that took up residence there.

And either the maids already knew about Feyre's power, or simply didn't care.

Because as soon as she shifted, her magic taking more energy than she had, the two women said nothing.

They merely twirled Feyre's auburn locks to some sort of faux crown, pushing in a golden hair piece at the back of her head.  
The heavy gold was encrusted with strange blue-violet jewels she assumed was another Night Court fashion.

But when they held up a mirror so she could admire their handiwork, even Feyre had to admit that this southern fashion was beautiful.

Her attention only snagged to the ring on her right ring finger. The King's gift to Feyre. The only sign to who she truly was.

The gold had dulled from days of dirt and grime. And Feyre had forgotten to wash it in her bath.

Yet the wings and triton of her seal remained as gleaming as ever. They seemed to mock her as to say, ' _What have you gotten yourself into this time?'_

Feyre quickly pushed that hand into her pocket.

"I'm afraid milady—" One of the maids spoke, as they finally exited towards the great hall, "That the kitchen hall has already closed. But I believe the Prince plans on ending the evening in his favorite Bahari tavern if you wish to order a meal there."

Turning down to her growling stomach, Feyre wondered if bearing the Prince's company was worth it just to have a hot supper after three days of gamey rabbit.

"Very well," Feyre resigned just as her gut rumbled, "Lead the way."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The tavern that the maids led Feyre to was busier than the market had been during prime hours—and then some.

Hordes of men were gathered around tables, drink in hand. Slews of courtesans shot bedroom eyes at any man willing to pay.

And Feyre's gaze rested to those women. She remembered a time six years past when the smell of sweat and alcohol meant good business for the night.

But it was hardly an establishment that any nobility, let alone a _Prince_ , should be in. Yet low and behold, there was Rhysand: standing behind the bar talking to some gruff-looking man like it was the most usual thing in the world.

Her own companions had left her at the door. But Feyre had an inkling Nuala and Cerridwen were waiting outside in case she tried to leave.

But with Rhysand's attention on someone else than her, at least Feyre felt like she was on her own.

And even if she knew the King would be abhorrent if he ever knew where she was, Feyre still walked to the bar with her head held high.

"Could I get your hottest meal, please? Anything will do," she yelled over the din of clashing glasses and music. The barman didn't even give her a glance before shouting the order to the cook.

Since she had no choice but to wait, Feyre turned to observe the noisy hall that Rhysand seemed to favor.

There was a band fighting to play over the raised voices. Couples gathered onto a cramped dance floor. Everyone else was either gambling or fighting. Or just plain drinking themselves into a stupor.

And all of it: from the unrepeatable customers committing perhaps all of the seven sins, to the claustrophobia of the tight packed room, would have made any noble turn their noses up in disgust.

But not Feyre. No, this atmosphere made her feel as if she could breathe again.

Finally, she was out of the palace, and among people that did not judge. For they could not care, nor afford to do so.

And as Feyre looked back to Rhysand, she appreciated him for that small gift: at the glimpse of what freedom would be like.

He had also changed. He now wore a dark blue tunic. It was velvet, with gold stitching along the collar, center and wrists. And although it screamed his status to anyone that wished to rob him, Rhysand remained at ease.

And Feyre couldn't stop watching.

The way he talked. Or smiled in laughter.

Here was a Prince; the royal successor to his kingdom, laughing with a bar owner like it was as natural as meeting with a Nobel.

But Feyre was finally forced to take her eyes off of Rhysand as a steaming hot stew was placed in front of her.

And she didn't care whatever meat was in it. Feyre gobbled up every morsel.

Thankfully no one bothered her during her meal, even the foul-smelling patron that was smiling at her two seats down.

She was only interrupted five minutes later when a steady presence sat down beside her.

"Don't even say it," Feyre warned as she lifted another spoonful to her mouth. Rhysand's familiar chuckle greeted her.

"I was never going to say anything other than I'm surprised to see you here."

She looked to him. "Apparently, I missed supper."

"It's not my fault you took a three-hour bath." His gaze sparked with mischief as it roved up and down her form. "But I see it was worth every minute. You look ravishing."

"Yes, well," Feyre started, ignoring how his eyes slowly retreated from her exposed midriff back to her eyes, "When you're taken upon murderous thieves and forced to travel three days through the wilderness with an egotistical Prince, a three-hour bath is required."

"I see," he smiled, "Perhaps I can buy you a drink. I'm eager to hear more about this egotistical Prince of yours. He sounds familiar."

Feyre huffed at his teasing. But Rhysand didn't wait for her answer before signaling the bartender. A drink slid to her a moment later.

She took a long sip, noticing how Rhysand stared. She set down her glass a moment later, pretending to mull over his request.

"Well?" he asked with raised brows, "Was this Prince as dashing at me?"

Feyre narrowed her eyes, finally conceding to play his game, "You really want to know?"

He nodded.

"Well, to begin with—" She made an act of looking him up and down, "—this Prince might have been the most self-absorbed man I've ever met. And I thought that was a title that could never be beaten. But now here you sit."

Rhysand threw his head back in thunderous laughter, and Feyre couldn't help but admire the sight.

He really was breathtaking. Even more so when he smiled and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

But she quickly righted herself.

Feyre could not gain attraction for Rhysand. Not after all that had happened.

They were enemies.

Not only was this Prince an infamous flirter of women, he was responsible for his countries prosperity. And that meant Rhysand would do anything to insure the Night Court's success.

Even if it meant working against Feyre.

"It sounds like this Prince and I would be good friends," Rhysand said after he caught his breath, "But _I_ would never drag you through a forest if I didn't have any other choice. I bet this Prince's hand was forced."

Feyre eyed him with meaning. "I suppose this Prince did the best he could. But he _was_ rather annoying."

"Do tell."

"For one, he kept making jokes about the size of—"Feyre let her eyes drop to his lap as she lowered her voice with meaning,"—You know, things only lesser endowed men talk about," she gave an apathetic smile at that.

But Rhysand's eyes only darkened with intent.

"I've heard quite the contrary, Feyre," he murmured, "Perhaps if you renewed your invitation from that fateful night, we could explore the _many_ ways I could prove it to you."

Feyre remained stern. She would not fall for this game. Not this time.

"Is that so?" she fixed her eyes into indifference, but she couldn't ignore how her siren flared.

It longed to dally and dance with a worthy partner.

And Rhysand was that, and more.

"Will you not let me prove it?" he asked instead.

"How ever could a man prove such a claim?" Feyre sipped at her drink, licking her lips afterwards. And his gaze locked onto her mouth.

"Oh, with the many ways in which I am _well_ -versed," he purred.

Feyre shrugged. "But that could never happen, because you of course, are engaged."

"Rumor," Rhysand said without missing a beat, "Something I allowed to spread only to appease my people."

"How fortunate for you." Feyre fluttered her eyelashes, "Then by all means, Prince. Do something about it."

"Dance with me," Rhysand rasped, standing to offer Feyre his hand. She took it, feigning timid-ness as he swept them forward.

But Feyre was already making her plans to have him begging by the end of the night. And then she would enter his mind to order him to take her home.

She had always known Rhysand was too devilish for his own good, but this teasing would be his downfall.

Because if the Prince thought his roughish implications were going to get the better of Feyre, he had another thing coming.

She was more than used to people playing with words and heated stares. That was her siren's job, after all.

But now, she would use it to rid herself of the Prince once and for all.

Yet the look in those violet eyes as they found a spot on the dance floor was different; set apart from all men Feyre had tricked before.

Rhysand's grip on her hand should have told her enough: that she was about to enter uncharted territory.

And just as Feyre was about to object to the dance, to tell Rhysand she was only prodding him on, the music drifted to something low and…driving.

With its firm rhythm and floating melody, Feyre suddenly couldn't bring herself to refuse.

Even if the dance floor was filled with couples that should have been finding rooms instead of groping each other in the middle of the tavern, she forgot all of that as Rhysand guided her grip to his neck.

"I never took you as a dancer," she cleared her throat. The swaying was making her head go soft. He merely smiled.

"Dancing is one of the only things that I am naturally good at. So why not take this opportunity to practice? With you being such a willing partner and all."

He gave her no time to answer before Rhysand spun her suddenly. And just as the world became a blur, he pulled Feyre back to his side.

He gave a dark laugh as she teetered slightly. And Feyre narrowed her eyes. "Or as a way to show off."

"If you think this is me showing off, we don't have to be so formal," he grinned.

"What do you mean?"

"What do you say to changing things up?" Rhysand raised her hand to lead Feyre into another turn. But instead bringing her back being face to face, he caught her so her back was now flush to his front.

And as soon as Feyre felt the hard muscles of his chest, and the hands that rested on her hips, the game halted and her siren awakened.

"Now tell me, is this more to your tastes, Feyre darling?" Rhysand breathed into her ear, igniting her magic like a slumbering fire.

"I don't know," Feyre responded, desperate to gain more ground beneath her. His hands only stroked her sides, gently moving her to the time of the music.

And even if Rhysand was close enough she could feel his warmth seeping into her own skin, her siren wanted him closer.

"But anyone can grope in a tavern—" Feyre craned her neck to say. But before she could continue, Rhysand dipped them to the ground.

Feyre cried at the sudden movement. It felt like she was falling. She clutched his forearms to stay upright.

His chuckle brushed her neck a moment later.

"Prick," she grumbled.

"Just trying to please you. But you seem unimpressed."

"I will be far from impressed if you let me to fall on my face." Feyre muttered. But she could feel her siren growing drunk from it all.

From him.

"But this isn't so bad, is it?" His mouth moved along her neck, his arms draped lazily around her hips. Sweat and sex coated the air, it urged her siren in the worst way.

Rhysand only kept swaying.

"It's not so terrible," she lied, trying her best to fight her enjoyment. Because Feyre _was_ enjoying this. Perhaps even more than her siren was.

"Here," he invited, taking hold of her right arm. She could feel his heart thudding through his chest as Rhysand slowly bent her elbow so it rested in the crook of his neck.

And when he ran his finger along the exposed skin of her under arm, her heart faltered.

"How about now?" he murmured low; his other hand barely brushing the side of her breast.

Feyre shut her eyes as his arms snaked around her torso. The music spiraled in her head, and she found herself surrendering to Rhysand.

She had heard rumors that southerners were famously passionate when it came seduction and desire. And everything that came with it.

But Rhysand was on a whole other plane.

Feyre's arousal ebbed hotter with each dip and sway. Each movement both intoxicating and agonizing at the same time.

And despite it all, she felt her siren started to recede into the background. For she knew this was not merely some trick or rouse of her magic.

This was real undiluted lust that Feyre was feeling.

And even if she couldn't see Rhysand's face, she felt that smile against her hair, felt his fingers drift along the tops of her thighs.

Rhysand knew what he was doing.

It was then Feyre realized her previous intent had disappeared long ago. Perhaps as soon as they had started moving to the music.

But she didn't care.

Suddenly, the only thing that mattered was Rhysand's hands as they continued to drift along her skin. They were teasing in a way that told her he was more well-versed in women than she gave credit.

Even if he wasn't engaged, Rhysand knew a woman's body; knew how to make Feyre want more and more. With skimming fingers and whispered kisses, he kept moving her to the rhythm.

And her siren…it was letting it all happen. It was allowing Feyre lose herself to the melody; to him.

But when Rhysand's hands brushed the bare skin under her tunic. Feyre gasped out loud.

Either he hadn't heard her wanton moan. Or he pretended not to.

"What about you? Where did you learn to dance?" His breath were the hot coals to the fire in her core. Feyre somehow found her voice to answer.

"Places like this." Her head fell against his chest as he scraped his palms along her stomach.

"How?" his voice was far away. She could barely form a thought as Rhysand's thumb traced the line of her trousers. But she managed.

"When I was young," Feyre all but gasped, "I learned it as a way to lure in customers."

Rhysand didn't question what exact customers Feyre had to lure in; merely humming as he tilted her head to the side.

Her neck was fully exposed now. But he did nothing but ghost his lips over her skin; teasing her.

"Then I'm sorry if this brings ill memories for you," his voice was soft. And it struck Feyre momentarily speechless.

"It doesn't remind me of the bad side of things. Not really," she answered truthfully.

"Good." His hair tickled her face as he bent to kiss her shoulder her tunic left exposed.

And when his tongue licked the skin there, Feyre was positive she was going to combust, right there on the dance floor.

"Because I must tell you, this is my favorite song," he said.

Feyre was acutely aware that she had once been in control, but somewhere along the line, she had forfeited her that power into his capable hands.

He only continued, his grasp slipping to her thighs to clutched the flesh there. Feyre whimpered.

Her core was wet from the proximity of his fingers alone. Just a bit lower and Rhysand could feel the very evidence of her desire. But he only spoke on,

"Would you like me to translate it?" his voice was dark, and a shiver raked down her spine.

It was only then that Feyre absorbed his words. Indeed, there was a vocalist. And he was singing in another language.

The melody was absolutely ethereal; as ever winding and mysterious as the ocean tides.

But every thought drifted away when Rhysand's lips touched just under her ear. And his tongue darted out.

And Feyre let out a long moan.

"I'll take that as a yes," he chuckled, Feyre had no will to answer. "The song speaks of a long-past time," Rhysand explained, his voice blending in with the music. "An age not when Kings and Queens ruled but creatures of magical decent."

Feyre's heart fluttered when Rhysand spun her so they were face to face. And she could do nothing but stare up at his violet eyes; her comprehension dazed.

"And these beings," he murmured low, "Some would say they had endless power, lives that could last not decades, but centuries."

Rhysand's voice washed over her senses, the words gaining meaning the more he spoke them.

"But one day, one King grew threatened by these magical beings," he whispered, "He tried to wash the world of this race. But he did not succeed."

Feyre lifted her head to look at Rhysand, and he merely blinked; a certain sadness residing in his eyes.

She had heard of this legend he spoke of. Feyre had read it in books during her youth. But not quite this version.

"The—the legend," Feyre broke from Rhysand's arms, the music suddenly drifting into the background as soon as she was rid of his touch, "Your translation is different."

Rhysand stared at her with eyes that should have been darkened with lust. But instead, they were filled with nothing but clarity.

"The magical race is extinct _because_ of the great war the King rallied. We humans wouldn't be here without that sacrifice." She pressed. Rhysand shook his head.

"The translation is clearer in my culture. The King was evil; jealous of the magical race that still barely lives today."

She swallowed at his words. "What are you saying."

"I hoped you at least suspected when we met," he said, "How else did you think I was able to see past your masks? You and I are alike, Feyre. And I think you see me for who I am, too."

Alike.

Feyre had never thought of searching for someone like her. The King had told her she was the last.

"It can't be."

"Just listen," Rhysand pled. Feyre shook her head, backing away from the dance floor into a darkened corner of the hall. He only followed.

"No, we are not alike," she sputtered. Rhysand's face remained solemn.

"We are, Feyre."

"No. You—you're lying. We are nothing alike." In her retreat, Feyre only found a wall. Now she was trapped.

"We are, Feyre," Rhysand continued, "I can read minds with my magic, sense peoples mental weaknesses and exploit them if I choose. Things I _know_ you can do, too."

"You can read minds?" Feyre's eyes widened in horror. "Have you been reading _my_ mind this entire time?"

Rhysand's lips thinned as he fell silent. And suddenly those times during her travels when it seemed like he had pulled the thoughts from her head all made sense.

He had his own magic.

And instead of telling her, Rhysand had used it to break into Feyre's mind.

She felt sick.

"You're vile. I can't believe you kept this from me," Feyre spat at his feet. Rhysand remained passive.

"I might have slipped into your thoughts unwillingly," he admitted, "But its only because we share a certain connection. Feyre, I would never—"

"—No, I won't hear this," she interrupted. Rhysand stepped forward with hand outstretched. Feyre slapped it away. "You're delusional."

"No. I am your counterpart, Feyre. And deep down, I know you feel it too."

"Stop telling me what I feel!" Feyre shouted. But she felt traitorous tears rushing down her cheeks.

And this betrayal that she felt it deep in her bones. It was stronger than it should have been.

It was because she had begun to trust Rhysand. Despite her best efforts, she had started to view him differently than all the rumors.

But Feyre had been wrong.

"How can I make you believe me?" Rhysand asked, violet yes beseeching hers in the worst way.

Feyre measured his face. He only waited.

"You claim you can see beyond my magic; behind the masks," she leveled her chin, "Then tell me what you see."

"Feyre—"

"Tell me!"

Rhysand did not scoff, nor refuse. His eyes did not waver a bit as he said flatly, "Your skin is not as light you would like people to think. It's almost as dark as mine, but it's littered with more freckles than you can stand," he gestured along her face and neck, "They run along your nose and cheeks. And even some drift onto your shoulders."

Feyre blinked at the admission. But she was not convinced.

"Keep going," she ordered. Rhysand shifted on his feet, his face drifting toward frustration. But he continued.

"Your hair," he pointed to the auburn waves that sat atop her head, "It's a mix of gold and brown. Rich in the dark, but burnished bronze when in the sun. Its texture is too unruly to be human; thicker than you can control."

Feyre swallowed at his firm tone. And despite this test she thought he would fail, with each one he passed, her chest seized.

"Not good enough," Feyre challenged, even if her voice caught in her throat.

"Fine." Rhysand came closer; effectively shielding her with his body. And she could do nothing but stare up at him.

His face crumpled as she shrunk from him. But the expression was replaced with that same mask of calm a moment later.

"Your face is unlike all the others I hear you like you wear," Rhysand said softer, "Your _true_ face is striking in different ways, Feyre. Not mousey, but strong and sharp."

Her breathing faltered. This was impossible. Rhysand was describing the face only Feyre could see.

"Your brows are arched like this," he continued, gently tracing the line above her eyes, "Yet despite how I try, they are always lowered at me."

Feyre shuddered out a breath. But his fingers only traced along her mouth. "Your lips are full, but balanced," he hummed, "And no matter what I say, they always seemed to be fixed into frown."

Indeed, she was frowning at that very moment. Rhysand's brows furrowed to notice the same. But he went on.

"Your eyes are slightly upturned at the corners. They accent the line of your cheekbones," his thumb continued to draw lines along Feyre's face. And with each lingering touch, Rhysand's eyes grew more anguished.

Feyre could only remain quiet as he gently cupped her face with both hands. And she fell into the warmness of his touch; lulled into a trance by his voice.

"The color of them are like a swirling storm," Rhysand's voice shuddered; thicker than she had ever heard it before, "They're a clear blue mixed with a mysterious gray. And one day, I only wish they will look at me without scorn." His voice broke with those final words.

But Rhysand had already pulled away.

And Feyre felt suddenly empty without the heat of him on her skin.

"That is what I see, Feyre," he said, and she let out her own shuddering sigh.

So many years, she had lived under her siren's anonymity, drifting from form to form. The only clue to her real identity was the ring the King had given her.

Now that was all over; washed away by Rhysand.

He saw her for her.

"I uh, think I believe you now," Feyre murmured.

He nodded. "I know what a burden it is to have power you don't understand. But it doesn't have to be unknown. You can shape-shift, but only when you say so. Not for some false King, not to seduce or to trick against your will. And least of all, not to use it as a way to deny who you really are," Rhysand finished. And Feyre's soul seemed to breath for the first time in twenty-three years.

A life of no one recognizing her had just came to an end. She hadn't known how something so simple had started to chip away at her after so long.

But something bigger was eating at Feyre.

Although it was mere a legend, was it possible that their world had once been different?

Had it been full of magical beings only for them to be near-swept into extinction?

And if so, what did it mean if Feyre and Rhysand were the last of them?

"So now that you believe me, can we stop all the games?" he quirked a brow, and Feyre faltered.

"What games?"

"Games like trying to trick me with your seduction magic. And in return, I will stop slipping into your thoughts."

Feyre crossed her arms. "Only if you teach me that mind-reading trick."

Rhysand shook his head with a chuckle, the thick atmosphere dissipating with it.

"There is no trick to teach. I know you've done it before, because I've felt you reach into my thoughts."

"I did no such thing!" Feyre cried. She perhaps could sometimes catch a glimpse of someone's desires if she tried hard enough, but she could do nothing like what Rhysand was describing.

"Don't lie to me," he waggled a finger, "I could feel you grappling for my mind as soon as you entered my room that fateful night."

"Well," she sputtered before regaining herself, "I will have to tell you, there wasn't much to find inside that head of yours."

"Really?" Rhysand grinned, "Perhaps it was because my thoughts were otherwise occupied."

Feyre scowled. "You promised never to bring that up again."

He let loose a chuckle, "I'm sorry. But in all seriousness, I could teach you other sides of your magic. So instead of it draining you, it can fuel you.

"Why are you telling me any this? All of this could be used against you."

"Like I told you before, I wanted to take the King's source of power. But is it so bad that it also helps you in the process?"

"Yes, it does actually. Because all of this puts you at odds," she said, "And yet you keep trying to help me. Why?"

He swiped a broad hand across his face, "You don't find yourself trusting anyone easily, do you, Feyre?"

"No, I don't. Not when you've had the upbringing I've had. I learned to only trust only myself and my sisters."

His jaw feathered at that. But Rhysand shook it off with a nod towards the door.

"Let's get out of here," he said, just as the bustling bar's atmosphere came back into the forefront. If anyone had noticed their conversation, they gave no inkling.

Feyre turned to him as they neared the exit, "Will I have my own room?"

"Only if you promise to stop hatching your escape," he returned.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

He gave her a kind-natured glare as he held open the door, "Good, because you'll need all the rest you can get. Tomorrow is going to be a long day."

Feyre let out a deep breath as she stepped back onto the street. And with one look to the churning ocean that lay beyond, she at least being trusted Rhysand in that fact.

It would be a long day indeed.


	6. Chapter 6

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Feyre woke up the next morning to find servants already packing up what little luggage she had. But when she had asked to see Rhysand, they gave her no clear answer.

Even as her and the guards left the hotel towards the shipping docks, he was nowhere to be found.

And she had good enough instincts to know that something was…off.

People were adverting their eyes too much, not telling Feyre anything when she asked. And she had yet to even catch a glimpse of Rhysand.

"I demand to see the Prince." Feyre finally insisted to the guard that flanked her. He was one of two hulking men that wore permanent scowls.

But they only continued to lead her through the crowd.

"I demand to know where you are taking me. Where is the Prince?" Feyre pressed harder when neither answered.

"The Prince will meet you aboard." The one to her right said. And they only stopped when they reached the sloping bridge that would take her onto the ship.

Feyre's head spun to and fro. Countless ships made their way in and out of the harbor. And even more people piled aboard.

"Why is he not here now?" Feyre looked around for a sign of Rhysand, but all she saw was strangers, "Where is Rhysand? I demand to speak to him!"

"You will soon, milady," The guards all but pulled her up the ramp that led to a well-weathered ship.

Feyre's eyes widened when she saw no southern colors flying on board. That was when she really dug her heels in.

"I refuse to go anywhere until I see the Prince!" She tried to shake from their hold, but they only lifted her from her feet. "What are you doing? Let me go!" she cried and fought, but they just carried her faster.

"Apologies, but we have our orders, milady," they said.

"What orders?" she yelled. And it was then that she realized neither of the guards wore that familiar gold crest that Rhysand and his servants always wore.

And the ship was nothing like the ones she saw serving the King's royal guard.

No bright paint that told of the ships origin, and no flags stating what allegiance it held. So that could only mean one thing…

It was a pirate's ship.

When Feyre started to kick and scream louder, the guards merely carried her past the slew of crew members that smelled like sea brine.

None of the crew even spared her a glance as they brought her to the captain's secluded. quarters.

"Sorry again, milady," One of the guards managed to say as they plopped her behind a desk. It was topped with fruit and bread. But she shot out of the seat a moment later.

"Stop!" she pled as they closed the door behind them. And the only thing she heard was the lock click into place.

She was trapped.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Feyre was doomed to do nothing but listen to what happened outside. Someone was booming orders from the helm. The crew shouted back their answering cries.

And Feyre felt the ship start to rock ever more violently; further and further away from Feyre's home, and closer towards whatever waited for her at the other side of the world.

Daylight had long since passed as proof from the wall of windows, but Feyre listened as the crew worked long into the night.

And with each passing second, Feyre grew ever surer that Rhysand was behind it all.

She would have thought her only kidnapped by some random pirates, but something told Feyre the Prince was involved.

After all, Rhysand had kept it no secret how much hated the King. So it only made sense he would hate Feyre too.

But worst of all the tricks, Feyre had been dumb enough to fall for it all. Perhaps she had been so desperate to find a friend, she had let herself fall under the Prince's spell.

She clutched her legs closer at the thought, feeling herself grow smaller and smaller into the floor boards.

Feyre's only prayer was that she would live to see her sisters again. That the King would be able to find her before these pirates sold her.

Or worse.

It was then that the door clicked open, and a dark shadow entered.

Feyre rose silently, as a broad looking man locked the door behind him. This man was even bigger than the guards that had kidnapped her in the first place.

She immediately shifted into a different face. This one Feyre used when she wanted to go un-noticed. It was unforgettable in every way, blunt features and colorless eyes.

No one in their right mind would guess her to be the Temptress of the north, wearing something so bland. But Feyre still made sure to remove her ring from her hand.

The gold circle was cold against her skin as she dropped it into her bust. But there it would have to say.

Feyre remained in the shadows as the stranger sat behind the desk. He had yet to even glance her way.

And as he sat forward in the candle-light, Feyre saw his bulging muscles, long black hair, and equally dark skin.

So he was a southern Pirate.

But by the look of his dashing black tunic and matching sword's belt, Feyre knew this man was no simple scoundrel.

More evidenced by the sparkling gold and silver-incrusted pommel of his sword, Feyre was not dealing with any lowly filth. This man was perhaps in charge of more than just the single vessel.

But none of that mattered. Feyre would not let herself be pray to anyone. Not anymore.

She made sure to stay to the darkness, as she followed the wall towards the desk.

Feyre had swiped a decanter upon arrival. She had been clutching for hours, just waiting for anyone to use it upon.

And this man was about to find out, just who Feyre was: not the trembling fawn, but the snapping wolf.

But just as she was about to bash the glass over his head, the pirate turned to her with a grin.

"Hello, Feyre."

Her eyes widened for a moment. But her momentary surprise did not stop her strike.

But he caught her wrist.

Feyre let out a grunt at the pressure, "Who are you?" she seethed the next moment.

"Drop the glass and I'll tell you," he countered, but Feyre pushed back.

It was then the candlelight caught his features. And her surprise turned to full-blown shock.

He was the man from the tavern in Bahari City. The very person Rhysand had been speaking to.

The decanter fell to the ground with a crash.

"That bastard!" she screeched, "Rhysand _is_ behind all of this!"

The man's eyes shot open, either at her language, or her realization. But all he said was,

"Just calm down."

"You wouldn't be calm if you were being detained against your will."

"True," he said. And in the light, Feyre begrudgingly realized how clean and handsome this man was. Not at all like any scoundrel she encountered before.

But Feyre broke from his hold to swipe a piece of crystal from the ground. She held it in front of her like a dagger.

"Woah there," he eased, bringing his hands up in surrender. But he eyed the sharp edge all the same.

"What the hell am I doing here?"

"My name is Cassian, and you are on my ship, sailing to the South. Rhysand's sends his regards."

"Don't speak that name!" Feyre raised the shard, "That prick sold me to you, didn't he? And you—you're a pirate, aren't you?" she motioned to the tattoos that stretched across his forearms.

Some matched the ones Feyre had once spotted on Rhysand in his rooms. She should have known then, not to dance with the devil.

"You're even smarter than Rhysand let on. I see why he favors you," Cassian smiled.

"I told you not to speak of him ever again."

Cassian only continued, "Rhys did, however, tell me that you know what it's like to be mistreated from your time in the slums. So I apologize for earlier. We had to cause a scene to spread rumors. The King must think you are kidnapped for any of this to work."

"Fuck your apology," Feyre said before lunging forward. Cassian didn't seem shocked from her foul language; nor shocked that she managed to corner him.

"The Prince has more in the works than my kidnapping, doesn't he?" Feyre pressed the glass against Cassian's throat. But evidenced by his numerous scars, it seemed the pirate had seen much worse.

"I would love to answer your questions," Cassian said, "But only Rhys can tell you what he has planned. I'm afraid it's not my place to reveal trade secrets."

"He's not here, so if you want to keep your life, you better start talking," she ordered, "You can start by explaining why Rhysand has gone through such trouble just to take me."

"Rhys doesn't want you as a prisoner, Feyre. He wants you on our _side_ ," Cassian revealed, and she receded slightly.

"Why would the Southern Prince want a northerner on his side? I could rat him out to the King as soon as it suits me."

"No. You won't. I can see it already."

"What makes you so sure?"

Cassian grinned down to his neck, "Because if you were going to do anything with that glass, you would have done it already." He waited, a knowing gleam in his eyes.

Feyre let out huff, pushing away a moment later. But she held her weapon, "If you make one wrong move, you get cut."

"Deal," Cassian nodded.

"Just tell me one thing," Feyre said, "Why does a Prince need a pirate's help? Why take such a risk in asking a criminal?"

Cassian smiled, "He told me in the bar he needed your transportation to the Night Court be as covert as possible. That your life had already been put at risk, and that he wasn't about to make that mistake again."

"That doesn't answer my question. Why does royalty call on a pirate to do his dirty work?"

"Because," Cassian shrugged, "Rhys trusts me. We worked together, he and I. That was before the King and Queen found him and took him in."

Feyre scoffed. "That's hilarious."

"It's true," Cassian said, "No one would ever know such a thing, though, because we as a country would never dishonor Rhys by revealing such a secret."

"He couldn't have been a pirate. That's simply impossible."

"It's more than possible." Cassian motioned for her to sit just as he poured both of them a glass whisky. Feyre remained standing, not taking the alcohol either.

Cassian only went on, "You would be surprised about the friend we share, Feyre. Rhys has much as an interesting past as you."

"He's not my friend," she answered a bit too quickly.

Cassian gave her a knowing look. "I assume he told you about his power?"

Feyre nodded.

"Well, although Rhys has always had…gifts," Cassian started, "He wasn't always royal. The southern King and Queen found him as a beggar. They saw good in him. So they took him. Much like how the Northern King found you on the streets, I'm told."

Feyre kept quiet as Cassian sat back in his chair and continued, "The difference of course, between the Northern ruler and mine, is that my King and the Queen chose to adopt Rhys in every way. To be treated as royal as their daughter the Princess Morrigan."

"What you've told me makes me no more partial," Feyre said flatly, "The Prince still lied to me and handed me to a bunch of pirates."

"Well technically, you've always been in a pirate's care," a voice called from behind.

And Feyre didn't have to turn to know that voice.

She knew it as deeply as she knew herself. That voice starred in her dreams.

As well as nightmares.

Rhysand.

He appeared from the doorway like shadow itself; those violet eyes laughing at her as her mouth fell agape.

"You prick!" Feyre shouted, "You were on this Gods damned ship all along?"

He shrugged with a grin, "Sorry we had to do things this way, Feyre darling. Believe me, it has always been with your safety in mind."

She did nothing but confront him, that insufferable grin spreading wider.

But before Rhysand could say one more thing, Feyre slapped him stark across the face.

"Ow," was all he said. Rhysand didn't even clutch the cheek that was starting to turn red from the force of her hand. But Feyre was not done yet.

She ripped open his shirt; the buttons flying off every direction before skittering along the floorboards.

And she heard Cassian clear his throat as Rhysand's eyes filled with heat.

"If you wanted to tear my clothes off, Feyre, all you had to do was ask."

"Don't flatter yourself, I just wanted to see if it was true." Feyre removed her hands from him like his skin was on fire. But she saw what she had already known to be true.

Rhysand's tattoos.

The swirling shapes and foreign words spun along his chest and shoulders before drifting to his back. And it was all the proof that she needed.

The Prince had been indeed, a pirate.

"And now that you know, does it change anything?" Rhysand asked with the crook of his brow. Feyre paused.

Did it change anything? He knew about her past, and now she knew about his. And somehow, it didn't change him in her eyes.

He was still an arrogant ass.

"Nothing will change the fact that you made me fear for my life. And for what? Safety?" she scoffed, "All you wanted to do was be dramatic."

"And still, it makes your blood thrum to know that the King thinks you are taken," Rhysand paused with a dark smile, "To know you are finally free."

"Stop reading my mind."

"Then stop opening it to me."

"You steal everything, including my thoughts." Feyre shoved past him in search of the exit. But Rhysand caught her elbow. "Don't touch me!" her eyes were wild as she faced him.

And Cassian might as well had receded into the woodwork. But Rhysand listened, and let go of Feyre the next moment. But his violet gaze was filled with dark meaning.

"Oh, I recall a night when you made your thoughts quite clear, Feyre," he murmured, "And I also recall in a certain tavern where you were begging just for the same."

She gaped at that. And before she knew what her hand was doing, Feyre slapped Rhysand across the face. Again.

Hard and swift this time. And the loud crack echoed through the entire cabin. Cassian might as well have disappeared.

"You know nothing of me," Feyre spat. Nothing but silence followed as she glowered at him.

Rhysand's hands clenched into fists. And she watched his gaze turn downright lethal.

"Oh, I know more than you think, Feyre," he growled; eyes slipping towards black.

And Feyre receded.

"I know you secretly despise the King," he went on, "I know you use your sister as your excuse to serve him. I know each law you help him pass, the sicker you feel. That each mask he demands of you drains more from your body. But most of all, I know you don't hate me as much as you'd like yourself to think."

"For the last time, get out of my head," Feyre grumbled, ready to strike him again. But Rhysand caught her wrist before she could.

"Ahh, ah, ah," he tsked, drawing closer, "You might want to keep that hand to yourself, Feyre darling."

She gave him a hateful smile. "Or what?"

"Or you might come to find my patience is not as much a virtue as other skills of mine."

She narrowed her eyes at that.

"Let. Go." Feyre ordered, only for him to let go the next moment. But as she stomped away into the adjoining bedroom, she heard Cassian distinctly say,

"Well, that went well as expected."

Rhysand's growl was all she heard before forcing herself into slumber.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Feyre remained in Cassian's cabin for longer than she knew. Days melded into one another.

Cassian had slipped books under her door to read. They were tattered and smelled like salt, but she would take anything to entertain her mind.

And each day, Cassian would bring her meals. Three careful knocks let Feyre know it was him.

Each time he would ask the same thing: 'Would you like to come on deck?'

Every time Feyre said no.

And then, perhaps after a week's worth of refusing, it wasn't Cassian's frame she saw enter the room.

But Rhysand's.

"What are you doing here?" Feyre gave him a surveying look at his wind-blown hair and sun-darkened skin.

And even if she despised him at the moment, she had to admit, the sea suited him.

"I came to persuade you out for some fresh air," Rhysand offered, "Being cooped up is never healthy."

"I don't want to speak to you. Or even look at you for a great while."

"You just did," he countered. Feyre didn't answer. "Come on, you at least need to get outside for bit. If only clear your head and stretch your legs."

Feyre watched his hopeful smile spread before saying, "I need nothing more than to return home."

"You can go home as soon as you wish. But only after we reach the Night Court and I explain my case. That was our deal."

"Why not just tell me now?"

"Because what I need to explain can only be done from the southern continent. But you have my word that you will be treated as my most honored guest until then."

"Is this how you treat your guests? You kidnap them for nothing more than the sake of gossip, _Rhys_?"She mocked his nickname. He remained unperturbed.

"I am sorry about taking you so abruptly. But the King had to be sent a rather firm message. After that move with those bandits, I had to make a move of my own. I know it's hard to believe, but we are on the same side."

"We are the opposite of allies," Feyre said. "And I'm done talking to you."

His feet wavered on the floor. "Alright, but at least come out side for a moment. All the men keep pestering me to bring you to the deck."

"I'm not in the mood."

"Fine, I lied. Cassian is the only one that's been harassing me. So if you agree to come outside and help me ease his whining, in return, I will not bother you for the rest of our trip."

Feyre finally turned. And Rhysand gave her a suggestive smile.

"Anything to stop your pestering."

"Glad to hear it," he grinned as she stood. Feyre stumbled as the ship tilted.

Rhysand caught her easily.

She brushed off his hold like it was useless. But the heat of his skin felt like it was searing a hole in her frock.

But Rhysand was already opening the door like the encounter had been nothing. And all Feyre could do was swallow her pride and walk into the fresh air.

The bright sun made her blink from spending so long in darkness. And she felt Rhysand following behind her as they reached main deck.

"See? I knew I could do it," Rhysand boasted as they were met with a scowling Cassian.

"Yeah, yeah," the captain grumbled. Rhysand held out his hand.

And Feyre gaped as Cassian handed the Prince a ten-pound bill.

"You took bets as whether or not I would agree to come outside?"

Cassian had the good sense to look guilty.

"It was his idea," Rhysand pointed to his friend, "It's not my fault everyone keeps underestimating how much you adore me."

"You said I would be unbothered if I came outside," Feyre returned. "So why are you still here?" Cassian gave a low laugh when Rhysand's face fell.

"You continue to cut me to my core, Feyre. But a promise is a promise," Rhysand said. And sure enough, both males left Feyre to her own company.

She was content to gaze out to the horizon towards the North continent. Happy for the rare serenity. And then it was interrupted by the sudden shouting of men.

Turning to see what he commotion was about, Feyre watched sailors rushing to their stations.

"What's happening?" she asked just as climbed the steps to the helm. But just as Feyre cleared the railing, a small slip of green appeared on the horizon.

Land.

"That, Feyre darling, is the southern continent," Rhysand announced from the helm. She turned around to find him smiling, "Welcome to the Night Court."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Feyre watched the sailors bustle about as they made preparations for port, listening to Cassian shout order after order.

But all Feyre could do was wait as the waves crashed against the ship. The sea breeze blew her hair from her heated face. And no matter how Feyre tried to forget how she had come to be there in this situation.

She could not.

Feyre didn't know how long she watched the green land grow bigger and bigger. Then all at once, it became vividly clear they were entering a port bay.

Only just as they neared dock, did Feyre feel that familiar presence appear at her side.

"Keep staring at the sea like that, and I'll make a sailor of you yet," Rhysand said.

Indeed, she hadn't known it to be so enchanting. Feyre could watch the waves churn all day and never grow tired. But she wasn't about to let Rhysand know that.

So all Feyre said was, "I thought I was to be left alone for the rest of the trip."

He laughed. And the sound scraped along her core. "I deemed this part of the trip over ever since we entered port. So I kept the bargain in that aspect."

"Not fair," Feyre scowled, "Just because we are almost to land, doesn't mean I want to talk to you."

"You don't want to hear why I brought you here, then?" he said, and Feyre's ears pricked.

"Something I'm sure you'll will be more than happy explain."

"On the contrary, Feyre darling, this is the only thing I've wanted to avoid until now," Rhysand frowned, "I admit, I kept a great deal of things from you. But you'll have to agree we both lied and deceived each other along the way."

"A fact you love reminding me."

"Yes. But right now, I will tell you nothing but truth."

Feyre looked out to the sea, "Is that even possible for a man like you?" she eyed the tattoo that stuck out from the top of her shirt, and Rhysand stiffened slightly.

"My past is undesirable to say the least. But I would never lie to you if it wasn't important."

"That's convenient."

"Tell me, how did you happen upon your current occupation with the King?" Rhysand asked suddenly. And Feyre's sour mood turned that much fouler.

"The King found me on the streets, as I told you."

"Yes, but how? How did he even know of your power?

"Intuition I guess," Feyre said, "But I didn't care how or why. He made it so I would never have to sell my body ever again."

"And do you enjoy what you do for the King now?" Rhysand asked. And Feyre narrowed her eyes.

"Why are you asking me this?"

"I want to know what motivates the temptress of the North."

"A great many things motivate me, more than you could ever understand." Feyre became defensive at his tone.

"What if the motivation is unlawful?" Rhysand quirked, and Feyre saw no hesitation in those violet eyes.

"Unlawful? I thought I was to be your ambassador?"

"I have proof that the King has done something unspeakable. More unspeakable than all his other acts. I want to know if you're willing to help me bring him to justice. Even if it marks you a traitor."

"What would I gain by helping you?" she asked with raised brows. Rhysand didn't blink before saying,

"You would have a place in my court. And freedom to govern yourself as you wish; magic or no."

"You're serious," she murmured, eying him with scrutiny.

It seemed Rhysand was bold enough, not only to borrow the King's prize.

But keep it.

"You're asking me to work against the King, against my own people?" Feyre could hardly believe it. But Rhysand's face remained serious.

"I want you to know you do not have to serve a man that has no thought to your health or happiness. Or his countries'."

"Is that what you guarantee? My health and happiness?" Feyre scoffed, "What about my sister's well-being? What happens to them once I agree to help you, _Rhys_?"

He went silent at that, perhaps more so by her use of that name than her harsh tone.

But Feyre only stepped closer, "Tell me what evidence you have against the King. Tell me what motivates _you,_ Prince _._ "

Rhysand's eyes dropped to her hands. But his shoulders straightened a moment later, "You'll find out soon enough."

Feyre blinked at his tone. But before she could ask more, they were interrupted by Cassian's shout to drop anchor.

And with that last official act, Feyre was there: The Night Court. Rhysand's home country and Feyre's new one for the next two weeks.

And she suddenly got the feeling that Feyre was in for much more than she had ever bargained for.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The ship docked and Feyre was forced into a hug by Cassian. But she begrudgingly returned it, promising him they would see each other soon.

"I see you like him far better than me," Rhysand said as they exited the ship.

"Don't tell me you're jealous."

"Never," he winked, "I see your scorn is a way for you to hide your undying love towards me."

"Perhaps I would have room to feel something else if you told me why I'm here," she said. But it was no use. Whatever Rhysand was hiding, it could not be forced from him.

And it was an effort for Feyre to keep up with the Prince's sweeping steps. Wherever they were going, they were in a hurry.

Along the way, she couldn't help but admire this new continent. Or the bustling streets of the pristine city.

This one more breath-taking than Bahari city in very way.

With cobble stone streets. Bright, white and tan stone buildings bursting with shops of every sort.

It's seemingly happy citizens walked the streets freely, even on a mundane week day where in the North everyone would be at work or inside from the King's patrollers.

But here, no one gave notice to Feyre or the Prince.

Perhaps because Rhysand was currently dressed in brown street clothes, his hair windblown and skin ever darker from their days on the sea.

But Feyre was not looked at either.

"Is this your capitol?"

"Yes. We southerners call it Velaris. Our most sacred city. Hardly any outsiders are allowed within its walls."

Feyre remained silent at that; wondering what made her special to be allowed in.

She waited for people to approach them. But no one gave Feyre's current light skin the slightest of looks.

So Feyre quietly stared upwards as she and Rhysand climbed higher. And as they came over a curve of a hill, did she see the Night Court's Capitol set between two great mountains.

They seemed to rise from the sea itself, nearly kissing the clouds as they watched over the bay with quiet protection.

How they held snow on the skyward peaks in the tepid climate, Feyre knew not.

But she even had to admit, every bit of it was gorgeous.

Eventually Rhysand—ever more fit than her since he was not winded at all—and Feyre reached a large white castle.

And as she tried to absorb her new surroundings, tame her hair and smooth her clothing all at the same time, she was becoming ever more flustered.

"Can I clean up before I am presented to the King and Queen?" she asked.

Rhysand glanced over his shoulder, "No one will care what you look like, Feyre."

She withdrew at that, "I am representing the northern continent. I would like to give a good impression."

"A pretty face won't help you a bit when it comes to the people you're about to meet."

"Stop being a brute. What face do you want me to wear?"

They paused just beyond a pair of wooden doors. Rhysand's eyes swept over Feyre; his jaw feathering slightly.

"This isn't some band of brainless northern lords that need to be fooled, Feyre. You can be yourself."

She blinked at dig at her people before saying, "You know I can't do that. Tell me what you want me to be."

"Be whoever you wish to be," was all he said. And Rhysand didn't wait for her before pushing open the doors.

Feyre barely managed to change into a face she hoped would appease this southern court. It was that same mask she had worn when first meeting Rhysand at the King's dinner.

The shift from the blandness she had worn on the ship into the stunning dark-beauty took most her energy, she managed it fast enough just as four people were revealed to her.

And they all stood when they saw Rhysand.

"So you made it?" a strange looking woman spoke first before peeling her eyes to Feyre. She had dark hair, but her eyes were a strange color: swirling gray, but closer towards silver.

"We made it with a bit of a strain, but still, we're here," Rhysand said as he turned to a beautiful blonde.

Feyre could do nothing but feel a bud of unwanted jealously bloom as this woman pulled Rhysand into a hug. But that jealously dissipated when Feyre realized who the stunning female was.

Princess Morrigan.

"Let's get going with the introductions." Rhysand gestured for Feyre to come forward.

"Feyre, meet Azriel, my spy-master," Rhysand said, as his gaze settled to a male that shared that dark skin and hair as Cassian and the Prince.

And as Feyre appraised his cunning eyes and sharp facial features, she realized the Night Court seemed to be never short of handsome men.

But Azriel's quiet beauty was not the only thing. His hazel eyes spoke of wit and knowledge beyond the King's own spies. Spymaster indeed.

"Hello," Feyre gave a nod.

"It's so good to meet you, Feyre," Azriel said, studying her with a bit too careful of gazes.

"Nice to meet you, too." She smiled at the strange man, and he managed to give her a smile back.

"You already know Cassian," Rhysand said just as said male slipped in. Feyre gave him a hesitant smile.

"I don't think anyone could ever forget, Cassian" she said, and he preened.

"I've heard that from a great deal of females," Cassian smiled towards Morrigan and that other female. The Princess merely stuck her tongue out. A move that made Feyre gawk that much more.

But Rhysand was already moving on, "Feyre, meet Amren." His hand swept over to the silver-eyed woman, "You'll be happy to know she is the only member here that is of actual import. Then again, none of these busy-bodies are rather useful," Rhysand teased.

Cassian and Azriel grumbled some sort of response. Princess Morrigan rolled her eyes.

"Good for you to come, Feyre," was all Amren said.

"It's my pleasure," she returned, not knowing what else to say as she was quick to avoid Amren's hard gaze.

Thankfully Rhysand was already gesturing to Morrigan: the Princess of the largest continent of the world; said to be the most beautiful woman in all their history.

And Feyre had just watched her stick her tongue out at Cassian.

"Feyre, I can't believe you agreed to anything this brute has asked of you," The Princess said. And Feyre couldn't help but smile at her teasing words.

"He sort of forced me anyhow," Feyre said, turning to see Rhysand's eyes locked onto her hands.

But Feyre had no time to ask just what his problem was before she was being pulled into a hug by the Princess Morrigan.

"Oh," Feyre gasped just as the Princess pulled back to look at her.

"I'm sorry, it's just that—well, we're so happy you're here," Morrigan all but gushed.

"I don't think I've ever had such a welcome," Feyre said rather shocked as she met Rhysand's eyes.

He finally came out of whatever trace he had been in as he nodded to the Princess.

"Feyre," Rhysand said, "Meet the Princess Morrigan of the Night Court. Although it seems she has already ignored her proper introduction by forcing you into on of her hugs."

"Oh, don't use that stuffy old title," the Princess shushed with the wave of her hand, "Call me Mor."

"Alright then, Mor," Feyre smiled again, and Rhysand swallowed.

"By Gods, I'm sorry, I can't stop looking at you. You're far more stunning than Rhys ever described." Mor said, stepping closer to take a lock of Feyre's hair.

"Mor," Rhysand warned.

"I don't think that's possible," Feyre said, ignoring the fact that apparently, Rhysand had told his sister about her. "I wish I was born with your features."

The Princes smiled as she clutched her own locks, "Oh no, my hair isn't this natural blonde. I lighten it with chemicals."

Amren scoffed at the words. Cassian and Azriel shot each other a humorous look.

"And why is that, sister?" Rhysand asked. The Princess just gave her brother a stern look,

"Is it so bad to want to experiment?"

He rolled his eyes.

"But you don't have to do any of that, Feyre." Mor turned to Feyre, "Your beauty is nothing like our world has ever seen. Or likely ever will again."

Feyre couldn't help but tense slightly at that. This was not her own face.

And by the look in Rhysand's eyes, he seemed to read her thoughts.

"I don't know if Rhysand told you. But I can shapeshift," Feyre said as the room went a bit quiet, "So the face you see is not completely my own. I hope that doesn't…bother you all."

Mor merely smiled as she took a step back. Everyone had gone still.

Rhysand the most of them.

"I assure you it doesn't bother us in the slightest," Mor said.

"Amren still won't admit what kind of creature she is," Azriel said.

"Or what cowardly world spit her out and made us deal with her," Cassian added rather gruffly; ignoring when Amren pointed a scowl at him.

Mor just shrugged, "The rest of us are just doing our best, magic or no. But I assure you, your gift is more than welcome here."

"I appreciate the invitation," Feyre met every one of their gazes before saying, "It's so nice to meet you all."

It was then that Feyre noticed the dais at the head of the room stood empty. "And I will be honored when I meet the King and Queen as well. Can I expect to see them at dinner?" she looked to Rhysand.

But his face had gone suddenly blank.

"They are…away at the moment," Mor was the one to answer, "But you, my dear, you look absolutely exhausted," the Princess placed a tentative hand on Feyre's cheek before turning to her brother, "Rhys, how could you bring Feyre here without giving her a chance to clean up and eat?"

His eyes flicked to Feyre before returning to his sister with a shrug, "I thought we were going to explain everything."

Mor only rolled her eyes, "That can wait. You've dragged Feyre to hell and back. So go and clean up. We all can talk later."

Rhysand nodded, "Let's go then."

"I hope to see you all shortly," Feyre paused enough to incline her head to the rest of them. But no one could respond before Rhysand hauled her out by the small of her waist.

"What's the hurry?" Feyre spun to him as soon as they were alone in the hall, "You practically dragged me out of there."

"You do your job well," he said with a rough hand through his hair.

"What are you talking about?"

"The ring the King gave you," Rhysand bit as Feyre followed him through the winding halls, "You took it off. Yet you wasted no time before smiling to each and every member of my court."

"I don't understand what the problem is."

"You don't have to act around them, you know. Those people are not a part of the King's court. In turn, they will accept _you_ for who you are. Not what you are."

"I am just playing the part I thought you wanted," she said.

"I don't want you to play a part," Rhysand huffed, "I didn't bring you here to feign interest, Feyre; to smile and nod like the servant _he_ made you."

"The King did not make me," Feyre said more firmly, "And I was no one but myself in that throne room."

"Are you so sure?"

She narrowed her eyes, "I belong to myself, Rhysand. My work with the King or not, I make my own choices," she raised her chin at his words, watching as halls grew darker as they ventured further into the palace.

"I'm not the one you have to convince of that, Feyre. I think you're trying to convince yourself more than anyone else." He glanced to her bust; but it was stark glare.

He knew exactly where Feyre had put her ring.

"You're in quite the foul mood, aren't you?" was all she said. He huffed. "Your sister was right. I trust some food and a bath would do us both some good."

"I'm sure that will give you energy to change into whatever face you wish to hide in next."

"I don't think I want to be around you like this," Feyre said as they paused in front of double doors.

"I agree. But sorry to say, you're going to have to be if you want to bathe in time for dinner." Feyre had no time to answer as Rhysand pushed open the double doors.

Lavish yet modest chambers were sprawled before them. It was a huge room to be sure, with nothing but a heaping bed on the east side. It was flanked by two huge windows that showed the city below.

The rest of the room was simple, even plain. A few paintings hung on the wall as Rhysand gestured for her to enter.

"Are these—"

"—My private chambers? Yes," he finished, and Feyre couldn't help but look to the bed. It didn't even have four posts. Just a simple wooden frame.

But Rhysand was already moving past it towards the corner of the room. "For some reason, the servants only ran the bath in my chambers," he said, "I guess you'll have to share."

She didn't have time to absorb the words, because as Rhysand pressed against the wall, a hidden panel shot open.

He motioned for her to go first. Feyre slipped through the secret door to find white limestone walls. They were carved with intricate pictures of every kind of sea life: real and mythical. The chambers felt more like a cave than a simple room.

And finally, displayed like an art-piece in the middle of the room, was a glittering bathing pool.

"Wow," Feyre murmured as she took in the endless alabaster stone, the tiled floor, the pillars that sat on each corner of the bath.

It oozed relaxation with its flickering candles, and trickling water. And she had never wanted something more than to sink into its waters; Rhysand or no.

"It's breath-taking," she murmured.

"Are you just going to star at it all day?"

"I'm not going to let your foul mood ruin my good one," she answered. Feyre dimly heard Rhysand shuffling behind her. She only continued to take in her surroundings.

The pool was ginormous, even bigger than the hotel's they stayed in Bahari City. The water was a gorgeous deep blue, as inviting as a warm bed after a long day.

"I'll guess I'll have to start without you," Rhysand called. And she blinked.

"Start without me?" Just as Feyre turned, she balked.

Because Rhysand he was undressing.

He had already removed his shirt, the strong planes of his chest rippling with the movement. He threw it to the side, waiting as Feyre gawked.

"What are you doing!" she sputtered just as he unfastened his trousers.

"I'm taking a bath," he quirked a brow, "I thought you'd like to do the same." He hooked his thumbs into the waist band.

Feyre managed to spin away in time, "Gods, Rhysand!" she cried, "Is there not another chamber you could use?"

She heard a plop of fabric hitting stone. The next moment, she heard rippling water, "I'm afraid we're currently having a water shortage, so we'll have to share."

"That's horse shit."

"Perhaps. But why not share? It's nothing either of us haven't seen before," he said, unperturbed.

But Feyre kept her back turned; eyes shielded, "This is beyond unsuitable."

"You forget I've seen your thoughts, Feyre. I know you never cared for those stuffy northern ways," Another splash. "But if you wish, there is a separate chamber down the hall. It might take a while for it to fill up, though."

"You planned this." Feyre gritted.

He finally let loose a small chuckle. "And if I did? Think as this as a way for us to put to rest whatever started in that tavern. If we can bathe in the same space, that means we can work together without anything else getting in the way."

"That's also horseshit."

"Yes," he laughed, "Unless, us being naked together _does_ bother you?"

"It's not that," Feyre answered too quickly. His silence was answer enough.

She took a deep breath, knowing if Feyre left, then Rhysand would know that it _did_ affect her. But if she stayed….

"Then what is it?" he prodded.

"It's that I really hate you right now," Feyre grumbled, her own ego starting to get the way. Because she was not about to let him win.

She was going to prove to Rhysand once and for all, that there was absolutely nothing between them.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 **A/N Tell me what you think :)**


	7. Chapter 7

"Is that the mark of acceptance, I see?" Rhysand's teasing voice called.

She huffed out a breath.

"Turn around," Feyre said the next moment.

Only when she heard the sound of such, did she roll down her pants.

And glancing back though, Feyre half expected Rhysand to be watching her. But his body was indeed, turned from her.

"You might want to hurry up before the water turns cold."

"Hush, or I will change my mind." Feyre scowled at the back of his head, quickly shedding the last of her underthings. She folded them neatly on the stone ledge before carefully placing her gold ring onto the pile of clothing. It gleamed in the low light; mocking her.

Feyre stood with a rush of breath. And even if she wore nothing but her skin, about to take a bath with the man she had once vowed to hate, she was not afraid.

"Don't you dare turn around." Feyre still ordered, only taking a single step into the water after Rhysand chuckled.

"Wasn't going to."

Feyre let out a sigh as the warmth of the bath seeped into her aching bones. Rhysand remained in the furthest part of the pool. But she still kept her eyes glued to him; in case he moved.

And as he promised, Rhysand had already started without her. He ran a soaked sponge over his shoulders; the water cascaded down his back, darkening the ink of his tattoos.

Feyre looked away. Or else she might trip.

Rhysand seemed unaware to her approach.

The water was slowly rising from her hips to her waist to under her shoulders. And that was where it settling, just covering her chest.

But the more the water concealed, the closer it brought her to Rhysand. And the more her stomach turned over itself.

What the hell was she thinking bathing with him?

"Anytime, Feyre darling," he suddenly called, "Unless your offer from the hotel is still on the table."

"You wish," Feyre rolled her eyes at the reminder. But now she had reached the end of the pool. And Rhysand's sponge paused.

It was either took moments or minutes as he turned to face her.

The only sound was the trickling water around them. And Feyre hardly knew she was breathing when his gaze dropped lower.

To where the water rested above the swell of her breasts.

"Are you sure?" His eyes were liquid desire as they rose back to her face, "I've been told I am particularly skilled at providing help with much more than disrobing."

"You are one insufferable, prick, you know that?" Feyre crossed her arms.

"Only trying to be a good host." Rhysand shrugged, turning riffle through a basket on the ledge. He came back with a dry sponge and bar of soap for her to use.

Feyre eyed him. "I see you're in a much better mood. All you needed was to tease me a bit, and now you're back on your feet."

"What can I say? I can only stay mad at you for so long."

Feyre narrowed her eyes, but hesitantly took to soap and sponge from his hands. "If we're really doing this, then turn around."

"How about you sit and I'll help you wash instead?"

She gaped. "You will do no such thing!"

"Why not?" he smiled, the sight making something low in her stomach tug. She blinked the feeling away.

"Because people talk," she said instead, "And I wouldn't want to sully your perfect reputation. If your people found out their perfect Prince had bathed with the infamous temptress of the North, it would be ruined."

"If you say so." He chuckled, dipping lower in the water.

Feyre breathed a sigh of relief as she backed into her own corner of the bath. There was a lip of stone that jutted from the edge. A seat it seemed.

As Feyre took perch on it, Rhysand thankfully remained in his own corner as he washed his hair with back turned. But his broad shoulders were still on display as he dipped to rinse.

And she was trying and failing not to stare as water collected to each crevice of skin and muscle.

She didn't know how many minutes had passed as they both washed in silence. But of course, Rhysand interrupted it.

"I can feel you staring." He repeating those fateful words he had spoken their second meeting: the night Feyre was sent to seduce him.

She shivered at the memory; at how far they had come since then. Her and Rhysand weren't quite friends. But not enemies either.

No matter how she tried.

"I was only wondering what the symbols of your tattoo meant." She made the excuse easily enough; only to avoid the truth: that the sight of him made her dazed.

Rhysand pivoted with a quirk of his brow, "Is that so?"

Feyre swallowed at his damp hair. It stuck up in every direction. But he still looked impossibly handsome.

"When did you get them?" She dimly gestured towards the artwork on his back. His eyes followed.

"If you really want to know, I got them eons ago. I can't quite remember when."

"What are they exactly?"

He went back to washing, concentrating on his lower arms now. But he stayed standing. "They're mostly myths and legends written in the old language. Some of the symbols represent the very story I told you in the tavern. Some don't." He paused to look to her, "You could come a bit closer and see for yourself, if you like."

Feyre huffed at his teasing. But her mind snagged on his previous statement.

The tavern.

Where Rhysand had revealed to her his magic; claiming that he and Feyre were one in the same.

"Why are you so curious all of a sudden?"

"Is it a crime to be curious? Feyre asked. Rhysand gave a soft chuckle, returning to his own task.

But she couldn't stop looking at the array of artwork on his skin.

Some lines of the black ink were sharp and harsh, while others were soft and sloping.

All of the them seemed to weave into one greater image. And Feyre couldn't help but want to understand it.

It was on when he moved sideways, did Feyre see an image she knew all too well.

Two identical wings expanded across Rhysand's side; so large they spanned from his back to the center of his abdomen. And in the middle, was a single sea triton.

Feyre's breathing hitched.

"What is it?" Rhysand asked. And she could hardly find her voice to answer.

"I know that symbol."

"Which one."

"The wings and triton." Feyre pointed, "That my royal sea. The King had it commissioned especially for me."

"Was it?"

"Yes. Why is it tattooed onto your skin?"

"What exactly are you accusing me of, Feyre?" His face was stark. She gritted her teeth.

"I'm wondering why you have my sigil marked on your God's damned body. I think that's fair thing to wonder."

He merely shrugged. "Why? You don't own the image."

"Stop being obtuse for once. What aren't you telling me."

"A great deal," he said. "But you wouldn't believe me if I did."

She crossed her arms. "Try."

He huffed out a breath. "This symbol represents far more than some coat of arms your King bestowed on you. And has it ever crossed your mind that your precious King took the symbol from something else? Not the other way 'round?"

"No. But the King did tell me no seal in the world matched it's likeness."

"Well, he lied."

"Then what's the truth?" Feyre asked quieter, trying to piece together the words he was saying, with the ones he wasn't.

Rhysand merely splashed his face with water. "Nothing of import."

Feyre fell silent at that; at the utter finality in his tone.

So she went back to her washing; keeping a watchful eye on the suddenly brooding Prince as she chose another soap from the basket.

This one was in a glass vial. And as she emptied the contents onto her hand, Feyre found the concoction thick, yet smooth.

"It's called conditioner."

She jumped to find him watching her again. "What?"

"Conditioner," he pointed to her head, "It's for your hair. To help soften it, and to make it easier to untangle. Don't tell me the King stole everything else from the southerners but proper hair care."

Feyre gave him a long look. "Northerners wash their hair. But you southerners seem rather obsessed with it."

He finally chuckled. Effectively erasing whatever tightness Feyre had caused by bringing up her sigil.

"Yes, well," he grunted as he scrubbed under his fingernails, "The north never was accommodating to cleanliness. They prefer conformity instead."

"Not always," Feyre disputed, but Rhysand only dipped under the water.

She huffed out a sigh, content to ponder every oil and essence in peace. And Feyre was just about to pour the 'conditioner' on her hair, when Rhysand burst to the surface.

"Gods!" she cried, nearly jumping out of the skin. He gave a soft laugh.

"Perhaps we _should_ have bathed separately," he said, "You're as jumpy as a rabbit today."

"I am not."

He quirked a brow.

"Tell me, Feyre darling, would you be this nervous if you were bathing with Azriel or Cassian?"

Feyre gave him a long glare, but he was already smiling.

"I will not deign that with an answer."

"Whatever you say." He stood, and Feyre couldn't help glance to his bare chest. Rhys caught her, and winked.

Feyre spun away the next moment. She looked to the vial she held, dumping its contents atop her head.

"Would you care to explain what you're doing?"

She glanced up to find Rhysand's rather horrified face. Feyre lifted her chin.

"You said it was for your hair. Well, so, I'm putting it on my hair!"

"Your hair needs to be wet for it to work like you want it to."

She remained silent.

"You honestly know not of what I speak of?" he came closer, the swirling bubbles parting as he did. Feyre tried not to gulp when he stopped a foot in front of her.

She had to angle her head to look at him properly. "Like I said, things are different here than in the north."

"I'll say," he grumbled, nodding to the glass vial, "Here, let me help you."

"I think I can manage myself."

He held up his hands, "I only mean to show you how it's done, Feyre. Think it as purely educational."

"Am I supposed to believe that?"

"Come on," he said, "We've been through a lot, you and I. We've survived bandits together. Camped and traveled in the wilderness together. Danced in a tavern together. Even sailed across an ocean together. Now we are naked in a bath together. Don't you trust me by now?"

"Not likely."

"What if I promise not to breach any boundaries?"

"That's not what I'm worried about."

"Then what are you worried about?" Rhysand cocked his head in wait, and Feyre paused. He answered before she could. "You're afraid the same thing will happen as it did in the tavern, aren't you?"

There was a beat of silence as Feyre gritted her teeth. But it was no use lying. Rhysand knew her too well.

"Yes," she sighed.

"You think so low of me, that I would lead you to do something you don't want to?"

"I'm already pressing my magic's self-control by being here with you—" Feyre blinked as he remained impassive. "—Like this."

"I must be missing something," Rhysand said, "You make it sound like the magic runs you. Not the other way around."

Feyre gave a sheepish shrug, "Most times I can control it, but sometimes I can't."

"Then don't."

She gaped at Rhysand, astonished, "You're telling me not to control a side of myself that does nothing but lust for the flesh?"

He shrugged. "I'm just saying that I battled my powers for so long that it ended up turning against me."

"That doesn't mean mine will do the same," Feyre adverted her gaze to the rippling water, "Just because you have power, doesn't mean everything about you and I are exactly the same."

"You keep telling yourself that. Doesn't make it true," Rhys said just before a wall of water came crashing over her head.

It left Feyre sopping wet, and sputtering for breath,

"What the hell?" she cried.

"I told you that your hair had to be wet." Rhysand still held the water pot, wearing a rather satisfied look on his face.

"This isn't helping me trust you."

Rhys gave her an apologetic grin, "Sorry, I couldn't help myself. I'll try to warn you next time."

"I feel like a drowned rat," she grumbled under her breath.

"You could never look as such."

Feyre was about to object to his words, including his offer to help her as well…

But something in Rhysand's eyes made her believe him.

He simply quirked a brow in wait.

"No funny business. Just washing," Feyre warned, turning on the ledge so her back was to him. She crossed her legs over each other to be more comfortable. And waited.

"Did you mother not teach you how to take care of your hair?" Rhysand paused, "There's tips and tricks, you know."

She huffed out a sigh. "I hardly saw my mother since she worked as a live-in maid before she died. So no."

Rhys hummed at that, popping open the vial and plopping some of the cream onto his hand.

"Well, lucky for you, I am here to educate you."

Feyre had no time to answer as he started working the conditioner into her hair. His fingers were firm but gentle as he coated every strand.

And she silenced a moan.

"I could have very well done this myself if you just told me," Feyre grumbled. But her body was softening with each touch.

"True," he said, "But that doesn't mean that you have to. You may come to see me as a friend. If you let me."

"You forget we're technically enemies you and I," Feyre reminded. For herself as much as Rhysand. And his fingers paused.

"Is that so?"

"The King tells me you are my enemy. So yes."

"Yet here you are, bathing with the enemy. Awfully strange thing to do, if you ask me."

That struck Feyre silent. She glanced across the room to where her ring gleamed. And engraved into the top, the very symbol that Rhysand had tattooed on his skin.

And it made Feyre feel strange, to think something so dear and personal to her, was also branded on his body.

Without her even knowing, they had been connected by it from across continents. Not enemies, but united by their magic.

Forever.

"Are you doing okay up there?"

She cleared her throat to wash her head. Because just like in the tavern, his touch was beginning to lull Feyre into a trance.

Her siren as well.

"Couldn't you just read my mind and find out?"

"I could," Rhys chuckled, and she seized. "But I won't. So we'll have to settle for the old-fashioned way."

Feyre relaxed. "I was only thinking why you would have my sigil as a tattoo. Perhaps it represent your magic as much as me? Are our powers similar in any way?"

"I'm curious as to what you think."

Feyre glanced over her shoulder, "Does everything have to be a game?"

He smiled. "No. But doesn't it make everything that much more interesting?"

"Your idea of interesting is different than mine."

"No entirely true."

"Really? How about the first time you arrived in court," Feyre said, "You caused an uproar within mere minutes. I don't know if the King wanted you dead, or his Lords for laughing. Was that you, or your magic?"

Rhysand remained silent.

She sighed at his test. But she still consented to play.

"I already know you can read people's minds," Feyre started, "But I think you can also urge them with your voice alone. Whereas I can only affect people with my appearance, you can with mere words."

She turned to meet his eyes. But Rhysand didn't meet hers.

"Am I even remotely on the right track?"

"Close. Dig a bit deeper."

"Okay. I think you can bring out peoples' darkest desires. Not quite like I can. But other traits. That's why the King hated you so much. You brought out his greed. And people don't ever like facing what's inside."

"I'm impressed."

Feyre smirked, knowing she had figured out his secret. "So, if you bring out peoples darkest sides, than that means—"she trained off as it dawned on her.

"I bring it out in everyone I encounter, Feyre. With you as well," Rhysand finished.

And Feyre swallowed. "When did you figure out you could do such a thing?"

"I learned it fairly early," he said, "The people you just met; even my sister who has known me for years, have to battle against my magic every day. Just to be able to remain in my presence."

Feyre herself was disliked by everyone she met. She had to use her siren if she wanted them to like her. She was lucky to have sisters for a source of friendship.

But otherwise, magic like theirs did nothing but seclude them from the world.

And whatever front he liked to put on, it was wearing on Rhysand.

"Is that why I've been such a bitch?" Feyre asked with an upturned brow. And Rhysand gave a curt laugh.

"You said it, not me," he smiled. It didn't reach his eyes, "But sorry to say, that's not my magic controlling you. That's something…else," he said softer.

Feyre's shoulders slumped.

"I'm sorry," she sighed, "I suppose my magic keeps me skeptical. It's nothing against you, but I've always been wary of people's real intent. It's either they want me for my power, or they want me altogether."

Rhysand hummed at that, "Don't get me wrong, its take years of getting used to. It's still frustrating when people reject me for my magic. But I only have to remind myself that they can't help it. It's same with your power; we can't help but want you, Feyre."

She glanced up to him, stunned; as if Rhysand and those other men she had tricked and discarded, could ever be in the same category as him.

"You seem to be able to help it," she said quieter, "Actually, you're the only one who hasn't treated me like my reputation."

Rhys pressed his lips together. "If it makes you feel better, you're one of the very few that my magic can't fully affect. To the point where I can almost be myself around you," he joked. But Feyre saw the hollowness in his eyes.

She was perhaps the _only_ one who Rhysand didn't have to alter himself to be around.

And so they were each other's exceptions.

"Well," Feyre started, "I do distinctively remember thinking you were the most arrogant ass I've ever met. So I'm not completely immune."

She was happy when Rhysand laughed fully; warm and blooming as it brightened his already stunning features.

"Trust me, if my magic altered you like all the rest, you'd know."

Feyre cocked her head. "How?"

"First off, you wouldn't be able to spend more than two minutes with me. The magic makes you seek any other's company. Or you will start to feel ill."

Feyre's eyes flickered to the space between them. She felt anything but ill at that moment, "And how is it I'm able to resist it?"

He paused, and she blinked in wait.

"Just close your eyes," he murmured, and Feyre wavered. Rhysand quirked a brow, "Trust remember?"

She huffed, finally closing her eyes. She heard Rhysand fill a container with water the next second. "Ready?"

Feyre nodded. And then she felt warm water flow through her hair; rinsing out the conditioner.

Only when it was clear he was done, did she open her eyes to find Rhysand gazing down at her.

Feyre shifted in her seat. "What is it?"

"Tell me, how has your magic felt during the past hour of our time together?"

"It felt—" Feyre's attention fell to his face, then to the pottery he held. And every inch of Rhysand, from his nimble fingers to the strong column of his neck, made her want to do anything but leave his presence.

"It felt content," she murmured, "My magic is silent. I don't feel the need to pretend or seduce. I am simply at peace."

He nodded, "There's your answer. Our magic recognizes each other, even if we can't. So it's immune to eithers' tricks. When close to one another, it often recedes into the background."

"That's why my shapeshifting is lost on you."

Rhysand paused. "It's not lost on you, how well we argue?" Another wall of water came over her head, this one gentler. And before she could part the hair from her face, he did it for her.

"Yes, I've noticed."

"Well, that's our magic undermining each other. But if ever our powers meld, like in the tavern in Bahari city, it will feel different."

His voice wed over her as much as the water had, and Feyre silenced a shiver.

"Different how?"

Rhysand bent to quirk a brow at her, "It would be worse."

"Worse?"

"Worse as in, the deeper you swim, the more taunting and beautiful the sea becomes. But all the more difficult to resurface."

She uncoiled her legs to face him. "You talk as if from experience."

"Perhaps I do."

Feyre had no time to press for more before Rhys turned to grab another bar of soap. He dipped it into the water; creating a lather with his hands before he delved back under.

And just when she was about to ask what he was doing, he grasped her ankle beneath the water.

Feyre yelped from surprise. But quickly relaxed when his fingers dug into the taught muscles of her calf.

"Rhys," she started, but he shook his head.

"You'll be happy for this later. Or else you wouldn't be able to walk tomorrow."

Her eyes widened, and he chuckled; low and dark, as the sound scraped along her core.

"You know what I mean," Rhysand clarified, "Travel has worn you. I don't want it to be my fault when the temptress of the North is too sore to leave her room."

"We'll be late for dinner, everyone will wonder what took us so long," she said it more as an excuse. Because his hands were rising.

"They can wait for all I care," Rhys all but growled, using a tone of a Prince potentially in line to inherit a throne.

And it made even more desire rush between her legs.

"This is unnecessary," Feyre objected in one last effort. But she melted as Rhys kneaded the flesh above her knees.

"Is it your siren, or you that thinks such?"

"Both," Feyre breathed, noticing how he didn't move above her mid-thigh.

"You're lying," Rhysand said, extended her left leg in a stretch. Her eyes shot to where he lowered it beneath the water.

"What?"

"Admit to me it _you_ that desire me, Feyre. And then we can stop fooling ourselves."

She was about to dispute him for her own sake when he rested her heel on his upper thigh. And everything in Feyre's body went taught when she felt the pure muscle there; knowing exactly what lay between such strong legs.

She didn't dare to move her foot.

Rhysand only continued massaging the bottom of her foot.

"My siren," Feyre all but moaned, her voice barely a breath, "I'm the only one who calls that side of myself that."

Everyone else just called Feyre a temptress or whore. No one knew she was the last descendent of the sea sirens from the legends. Only the King.

And apparently, now Rhys knew.

He merely switched to her other leg, lifting it so her toes peeked about her water. And Feyre fought a groan when he his thumbs dug into the arch.

"I've heard you call it that in your thoughts," he murmured. Feyre's head fell back as he continued his heavenly rubbing.

"How is it that you can get into my mind so easily."

"Years of practice. But lucky for you, I am willing to teach you how to block such attempts. If you want to."

She looked up to see his dark smile.

"How fortunate for me," she said. But his hands continued to drift upwards. And her muscles tensed the higher he went.

"Just relax, Feyre," he said, "Everything is your own. Your body and your thoughts are your own. For now, at least," he teased.

She rolled her eyes. But still let her head loll onto the pools edge.

"I can't imagine why I am so tense," Feyre said, "Even if you weren't here, I never find myself relaxing so easy."

"Why is that? Hasn't the King ever given you free time?"

"Not ever," Feyre answered. Rhys slowly lowered her leg, "And even if he did, I hardly would use that time to do what we are now."

He chuckled at that, "Really? You've never taken a bath with a Triton before?"

She cracked open her eyes, "What did you just say?"

"A Triton," he repeated, "That's what I'm called. At least what they used to call men like me. Back when magic was abundant in our world."

Understanding dawned her features, "The wings and the sea triton," Feyre murmured, "They represent your magic as much as they represent mine. I was right."

He nodded.

Feyre let that roll around in her head. Rhysand only took her hand to knead between his own; starting with her palm before working up her forearms.

"I never knew there to be a counterpart for magic like mine. How strange," she mused.

No wonder both her and Rhysand were called to the seas.

History told of sirens and tritons alike, being able to lure men and women into the water.

And Gods knew, Feyre was well-versed in the area of desire between men and women. But she had never even thought that there was someone else out there like her.

"Are there more like us?" she asked.

"Perhaps," Rhysand said before switching to her other arm. He was careful not to venture higher than her upper arm. He had yet to touch her shoulders.

"But I've been searching for a while," he continued, "And I've never found anyone that shares power quite like ours."

Feyre hummed. And the more she concentrated on his touch, on his voice, she knew he was right.

What her siren felt when with him was beyond anything. It wasn't merely attraction that connected her to him.

It was instinctual.

"I would like to know why we were chosen," Feyre said, "Was it by pure chance or by the will of the gods?"

"Who knows," he shrugged, his hands slowly moving upwards towards her shoulder, making her stomach tighten in anticipation the closer he got, "But I like to think we live beyond some god's will. Whatever that may be."

Feyre was about to ask why he had stopped before he softly ordered, "Turn around."

She hesitated, and Rhys smiled, "I promise, I will do nothing but massage. Unless, you ask for more."

Feyre pretended not to have heard that last part.

Either way, she shifted her body; crossing her legs under each other as she clutched the cool edge of the pool.

And she moaned when she felt a broad swipe of his hands across her aching shoulders.

"Oh Gods," she sighed. It was if the stress was dissolving from her.

"You certainly love praying to those Gods of yours," Rhys chuckled, each grasp more painstakingly arousing that the last.

And she couldn't help but close her eyes at the sensation.

Feyre had no answer for his remark, but she feared if they stopped talking, the atmosphere might swallow her whole.

And her siren was starting to tighten like a coil.

"Do the King and Queen know what you are?" Feyre asked, "Do they know what I am?"

"You really want to talk of my parents right now?"

"Humor me."

He did not. The opposite actually, his voice was almost sad as he answered, "I told them eventually. And despite whatever risk my magic could have brought, they never blamed me because of it. And I will be forever thankful for that."

"You are lucky to have them," Feyre said, even if his talented hands were making her head go light, "And they are lucky to have found you, Rhys," she added. Why she felt the need, Feyre had no idea.

But when she looked over her shoulder, his face was drawn.

"I wouldn't quite say that."

Feyre wanted to ask what he meant by it. But she became acutely aware of how he was being careful not to venture lower than the small of her back as he moved across her spine.

And the combination of warm water and the feeling of his hands; knowing it was Rhysand doing it….Feyre couldn't help but moan in appreciation.

"See? aren't you happy you came," he said, voice lighter, "Now you can brag to your northerners you received a personal massage from the Prince himself."

"I'm sure to be the envy of every female." Feyre teased. But it made Rhys pause.

And she knew why, as he slowly moved to her neck.

Perhaps this was the most agonizing as his callouses scraped along Feyre's sensitive skin.

And she couldn't help but image that touch elsewhere.

"There," he announced as he stopped, "That should make you sleep soundly tonight."

The entire process had felt like mere seconds.

And now Feyre missed the feeling of his hands on her.

Her siren ached for much, much more.

She turned to look over her shoulder, her eyes heavy as she smiled.

And Rhysand went a bit still.

"I think you missed a spot," she all but rasped. He didn't move.

"Did I?"

"Yes," Feyre opened her hand to take his. He obeyed; watching the entire time as she ever so slowly, led his grasp down her neck.

His palms grazed her skin in the most delicious of ways. She only stopped when they rested over the swell of Feyre's right breast.

And Rhysand sucked in a breath.

"Feyre," he growled, "Are you sure?" His violet eyes were questioning.

She nodded.

"I want this." She cocked her head when he remained still. "A siren wanting a triton is nothing but natural, is it not?" They were cowardly words.

It was much more than nature that was urging Feyre to Rhysand. But she couldn't ever tell him the truth.

His brows knitted slightly as he took a step closer.

"If we do this, Feyre, then there is no going back."

She sat straighter; the peaks of her breasts now visible above the water. Then Feyre spoke the words that would be Rhysand's undoing, "I don't want to go back."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 **A/N Sorry for the ending there. But the chapter was getting long. Tell me what you think :)**


	8. Chapter 8

Something flickered through his eyes. But he gave no response as he softly grasped her breast.

Feyre sighed at the feeling, her back arching slightly. Rhysand groaned.

"I've been dreaming of how these felt," he rasped, "Even before the tavern, I wanted to touch you."

She smiled. "Then touch more."

His gaze darkened. But Rhys only withdrew a moment later to reach for another bar of soap. Feyre looked up in question.

"This way, you'll smell like me," he said.

His words made Feyre go slack. And watching him create a lather in his hands, she groaned when he swirled the bubbles around her neck; her shoulders.

His familiar scent of citrus and sea surrounded them, but Rhysand was careful to avoid her chest.

And just when Feyre was about to object to the neglect, his knuckle brushed her nipple.

"Rhys," she arched with a moan; the cool air brushing her wet skin.

"Finally, something your lips instead of those dreaded Gods." He pressed his lips against her damp neck. His palms scraped between the swell of her breasts before taking them into his hands.

Feyre reached behind in search of something that she too, could grasp. But the seat caused Rhysand to be out her reach.

"That can wait," he said, "Tell me what you need instead."

She twisted, desperate to feel him, but Rhysand caught her hand.

"No. What do you _need_ , Feyre?" He guided her hand along her leg. And Feyre's chest heaved when he brushed her inner thigh.

"You know what," she managed to say.

"How about you show me," his voice whispered along her jaw.

Feyre once again, attempted snaking another hand where her lower back met his abdomen. But just when she got to that deep of muscle, Rhysand redirected her hand.

"Not yet, Feyre," he chastised, "I want to touch you, and only you right now."

She pouted. But then his fingers skimmed her abdomen. And all thought left her head.

"Show me where," he said, and Feyre's heart doubled in pace.

"I've never—" she broke off mid-sentence. She never let the siren take full power and let her own desires be known. His mouth brushed her ear.

"It's natural, like you said."

She swallowed.

"No shame," he added; sensing his smile against her skin, "Only instinct."

"I don't if I can—," Feyre bit her lip; more reluctant to admit that she had never thought of her own pleasure, than the actual act.

But to Rhysand's credit, he didn't ask what she meant. He only grasped her hand that remained on her stomach.

"Then only do what feels right."

Rhysand's other palm halted on her breasts. Waiting.

Feyre closed her eyes; feeling the warmth of his hands; hearing the steady rhythm of his breath. And finally, looking into the eyes of such a powerful, yet caring man, she felt at peace.

"Just do what feels good," he encouraged, "But instead of your own fingers, they'll be mine."

Feyre nodded. And ever so slowly, guided his hand lower.

Rhysand purred his encouragement, the sound making her shudder. Feyre still paused when they reached just above the apex of her legs.

"Are you sure that's where you want me?" his other hand skittered along her inner thigh, and her center clenched.

But she wanted more.

So with one last bracing breath, Feyre inched his grip down, increment by increment. Until his fingers were seated between her legs.

"Fuck," he cursed roughly. Yet he went no further.

Feyre gritted her teeth in frustration.

But could she be so brazen and pleasure herself with his fingers? It went against everything she had been taught.

How many years had she thought only of men's pleasure, instead of her own? How many years had her own desires been pushed aside?

And now Rhysand was turning that all on its' head.

"Why did you stop, Feyre?" The sound of her name on his lips made her head go light.

Feyre had always hated men using her name; hated how they said it to demean and possess.

But her name coming from Rhysand….it caused undiluted arousal to rush through her.

Most importantly, it gave her the confidence Feyre needed.

So when turned to face him; Feyre finally let her own desire take over, "Why _did_ you stop?" she quirked.

And Rhysand's face could only be described as devious.

"Perhaps—" He ran his digits between her wetness, "You prefer my fingers here?" He said as he settled just above that tiny bundle of nerves.

Feyre arched in search of friction. And Rhysand's growl rumbled from behind her.

"Not so fast, Feyre darling," he tsked, "What next?"

She ground her hips in answer, but he only chuckled, "I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific."

"Rhys," Feyre clenched her teeth in frustration. But everything he was saying and doing….

It was driving her insane.

"Yes, Feyre darling?"

"Just give me something," she bit. He remained unmoved.

So with one final breath, Feyre moved his hand where she wanted, hoping he would do the rest.

Rhysand only dragged his mouth along her jaw, his teeth scraping ever so slightly, "I will need a bit more instruction than that."

She spun to him. "Can you stop being a prick for once?"

He smiled at her ferocity. "I'm afraid that part of me won't be coming out to play." He tipped her head to the side, his lips barely brushing hers as he said, "I want to play with you instead."

And all of Feyre's anger dissipated.

"So if you want me to continue, you will have to _show_ me, Feyre," he purred into her parted lips. And she didn't know if she wanted to scream or moan at the agony of it all.

Because Rhysand was making her feel things she hadn't before. But he was also testing her in a way she wasn't used to.

Men always gave Feyre whatever she wanted in a moment's notice.

But Rhysand…he was making her wait, making her forgo the power her siren usually held.

And Feyre had never imagined how exciting it all could be.

So she finally swallowed that pride that always kept her cautious in years prior. Either because of her duty or to her own self-control…

And moved his hand.

"Yes," he praised. Feyre closed her eyes again, reveling in his voice and the feeling of his fingers.

She directed his hand lower, and Feyre's head fell against his shoulder when he brushed her entrance.

Rhysand tensed behind her as she increased pace; his groan echoing off the stones with each pass of his fingers.

And then things changed.

His other hand joined the trawl. And Feyre gasped when he plunged a single finger inside her.

"Oh Gods," she cried.

"Tell me what you need, Feyre," his voice was hot against her ear as she felt the pressure of his teeth.

"Faster," she breathed, grounding her hips. The water splashed from the movement. Rhysand only groaned.

"Gods help me," he growled the next moment. She wondered what he meant by it.

But Feyre was growing ever more impatient to feel that deceitful mouth against hers.

She twisted in search of his lips, but was only met with the side of his head.

Because he was watching where their hands joined under the surface. Feyre did the same.

She watched the water splash and break. She clutched onto his neck to gain better access.

And then Rhys curled a finger inside her.

"Oh Gods, yes." She bucked wildly; sending even more water over the ledge.

"Come for me, Feyre," Rhys ordered; his voice dark and commanding. She could do nothing but obey.

And when he curled that finger again; stroking a spot she hadn't known existed, Feyre bit the only thing close enough.

Rhysand snarled as she sunk her teeth into the flesh of his neck. She felt ravenous as Feyre's nails dug into the muscles of his shoulder.

Rhysand only pushed a second finger inside, never faltering pace. Feyre arched further from the water; holding onto him for support, feeling herself teeter closer to that imaginary edge.

And then Rhysand captured her lips.

It shocked Feyre. More than the driving force she felt deep in her core; even more than the pressure in her chest.

This kiss was raw and hostile; stripping Feyre of any insecurity or doubt. And she threw every ounce of herself into it.

To him.

And then she cracked open.

Pleasure coursed through her veins as Rhysand swallowed each and every one of her cries.

Feyre pulled him closer as she rode out her climax. His lips and tongue only continued to stroke her mouth through every bout of it.

Even when she thought her magic was going to consume her entirely, Rhysand persisted.

Feyre's power surged; sending a shock-wave throughout the room. Yet he remained.

Finally, when everything had subsided, and she was utterly spent, Feyre did not move. Or even speak as Rhysand pulled her into an embrace.

She didn't know how long she clutched his neck; gasping into his chest.

Rhysand seemed content to let her let her breathing return to normal.

And as she listened to his own heartbeat slow, for once in Feyre's life…

The siren slept.

"You were absolutely, glorious." His voice rumbled through her very soul.

Feyre peered up to find his violet eyes impossibly bright. She let herself memorize his face; that expression as he gazed down at her.

Then Feyre was kissing him again. This one ever more heated than the first.

She didn't bother holding back as she pulled his tongue into her mouth. Surrendering every ounce of her bliss over to him.

Rhysand groaned. Feyre only gripped him tighter, not wholly aware of the feelings possessing her.

She had felt complete. Feyre had felt more than.

After years of being overshadowed by a lustful siren, or drained by magic that did nothing but take, Feyre felt in control.

Like her real self could finally breathe again.

But all those thoughts left her head as Rhysand slowly slipped his fingers from inside her. Feyre hadn't realized they had yet to part.

And now she felt empty.

"I'm sorry," she said as she sat upright. Gods, Feyre had felt like a ravenous animal. The sounds she had made… the control she had forfeited…

"Don't be," he smiled.

Still, blush spread along her face and chest. For even now, after it was all done, Feyre was far from satisfied.

But it was not just the siren that longed to never leave that bathing chamber.

Feyre knew she would ever stop wanting Rhysand.

"I know," he chuckled, reading the heat in her eyes, or perhaps thoughts in her head. Maybe both, "But I'm afraid dinner is waiting."

Before Feyre could utter a word, he brought those fingers to his mouth; the very ones that had been inside her. And sucked.

Her eyes darkened as Rhys tasted her very essence. And then his words resonated:

 _Dinner is waiting._

Feyre couldn't help but picture the act, his stunning face between her legs; having a feast of his own.

Rhysand smiled like he knew exactly what she was thinking. But he only placed a light kiss on her hand.

"Later," he promised, reaching over the ledge to hand her a towel. Feyre went frozen when he stepped from the pool the next moment.

Sadly, Feyre had no time stare at his glorious behind before Rhysand wrapped the cloth around his waist.

But all breath left her when he turned, and she saw the more than prominent bulge straining against the towel's constraint.

Rhysand winked at her.

"Has anyone told you that you don't play fair?" Feyre accused.

He flashed a grin before helping her out of the water. She shivered as the cool air met her heated skin.

"I could say the same to you, Feyre darling." His eyes dropped to her naked breasts.

Then lower.

And despite everything they had just shared, Feyre was blushing again.

"But I'm afraid we must hurry and get dressed," he said with a rough hand through his damp hair, "I know you must be as hungry as I am."

"Not quite for food," Feyre grumbled as she wrapped the towel around her body with a huff. But Rhysand caught her chin.

"I'm not saying there will be no chance for dessert later," he said; voice laden with dark promise.

And Feyre's blush deepened.

Even as they both collected their things, and Feyre left to dress in separate rooms, did she realize she was still smiling.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Feyre dressed for dinner in a daze. Neula and Creddulin led to what would be her permanent chambers.

The rooms were breezy and lavish; dressed in hues of blue and gold. And on the sprawling bed, laid two different frocks.

They might as well have been polar opposites. The first was clearly a Northern fashion, with its full ruffled skirts, high bodice and three quartered sleeves. It looked so dreadfully hot.

And Feyre couldn't help but scowl at it.

The other gown was a soft pink and striking gold. Showcasing near-sheer panels, and a low neckline, her body would be exposed to the open air. It was clearly a southern trend.

Also, the option that would keep her the coolest.

So Rhysand had given Feyre the options. Whatever dress she chose was a test, no doubt, to see if she was willing to adapt.

Yet no matter his ulterior motive, she couldn't help but admire the Night Court gown. And so her decision was made.

"This one," Feyre pointed to the shimmering panels. The maids nodded their head in unison before helping her into the garment.

"Do you know what would accent these colors, milady?" What Feyre thought was Neula spoke. She couldn't be sure since both maids were practically identical.

"What?" Feyre asked; both women's accents were just so thick.

"A skin to match," Creddulin said with a smile. At least that was what Feyre heard.

She turned to her reflection: the strange- colored hair, freckle-splattered face, and dark skin. And for once, Feyre she did not feel like an outsider.

"I think you're right." Feyre agreed.

Neula and Creddulin did not falter when Feyre's magic took over. All she had to do was commit the features to memory, and the siren would make them flesh.

It was something Feyre had not done in years: let the world see her for who she truly was.

But something had changed in that bathing chamber. Feyre didn't know precisely what, but suddenly….

She didn't want to hide any longer.

So, she let her real hair remain unbound; let Nuela and Creddulin brush kohl atop Feyre's gray eyes; finishing with a red dye to her full lips.

And all of it, the dress and make-up, made Feyre feel vibrant.

Unabashedly.

And she hadn't known how liberating it could be.

So with one final clink of the King's ring into her jewelry box, Feyre left her rooms to join the dinner.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When she reached the throne room, it was filled to the brim with what appeared to be every noble in the Night Court.

Except Rhysand's inner circle.

Everyone was seated when she entered, dressed in their finery and slowly picking at the first course of the meal. Feyre scolded herself for being late.

But then again, she had been otherwise occupied.

Rhysand had been able to make it on time, though. For the Prince of the Night Court sat at the helm of the table.

He wore a sparkling tunic of the palest pink, embroidered with whorls of gold. The colors made hair look darker, and his skin as rich as ever.

He was taking a long pull of wine as Feyre headed to her seat. Their gazes locked as the glass met his lips.

And then his attention slid lower.

But instead of that cunning smile that Feyre had come to know, Rhysand sputtered on his drink.

The sound almost made her trip. And everyone turned to the prince as he fought for breath.

Rhysand was already wiping his mouth when every member of court turned to look at what had caused the shock.

And as soon as their stares settled on Feyre, she immediately regretted the dress.

Feyre's frock, although Nigh Court fashion, was far from appropriate for a formal dinner.

She glanced down to the panels that barely covered her chest before joining at the hips. The sheer fabric that had once been so empowering now made Feyre feel naked.

Thankfully Rhysand had recovered himself by then, as he rose his hand to her, "My fellow Lords and Ladies," he announced just as she reached her seat. "This is Feyre Acheron."

He sounded so different when he addressed his court. Suddenly, the encounter in the bathing chamber felt like years ago.

And Feyre did her best to keep her head raised as all eyes scrutinized.

But she failed.

"She is here on behest of my direct invitation," Rhysand only went on, "To help with what troubles have been plaguing our world most recently. And I would like to remind you to keep your eyes to yourselves, gentlemen."

Feyre pressed her eyes shut at the words.

Rhysand cleared his throat.

"As we were discussing before," he said, "I brought her here for her knowledge someone to with the Northern King. But despite her country of origin, I urge you to treat her with the welcome my inner circle already has, as we all discuss the matter of war."

And suddenly, Feyre's idiotic dress, or her relationship with Rhysand all dissipated at that single word.

War.

Her head shot upright. But Rhysand did look at her.

"As you all know," he continued, "The Northern King is suspected to arranging the High Lord and Lady, my beloved parents', assassination."

Rhysand showed no ounce of emotion as he spoke. But Feyre's lips wobbled.

Assassination.

Suddenly all the excuses to why the King and Queen were never there, made sense.

' _You'll find out soon enough,'_

' _They are away at the moment,'_

It was because the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court were dead.

And every southerner, including Rhysand himself, thought their assassination had been carried out by the very man Feyre served.

She felt sick.

"Although this act is unforgivable," Rhysand continued, "I think not in vengeance as we continue forward, but for the good of our country and its' people. And I wish for you all to do the same."

Feyre couldn't move. Couldn't think as Rhysand addressed each of his trusted advisors.

Even the wives were present in this discussion of war; something that would have never been imagined in the north.

Whenever the King held council, Feyre was always ushered out the door. Instead, she was told to entertain the women as the men strategized in the other room.

Yet Feyre had been invited to a foreign countries' war council.

By Rhysand himself.

But why?

"I say we fight back," one of the younger Lord's suddenly piped up. He had light hair despite his tan skin. And vivid green eyes. "Why not hit the North where it hurts? We should be sailing tomorrow to bring this war to their own capitol!" His voice turned guttural as the rest of the table mumbled their agreement.

Feyre looked to Rhysand. He was keeping his face unreadable. And she hoped it was because he disagreed with what this Lord was suggesting.

But despite Rhysand's calm face, or Feyre's own queasy stomach, one thing made her even sicker.

He had not told her.

And now Feyre looked like an utter fool.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," she finally broke silence, "But I would like to hear what evidence you have of the Northern King's wrong-doing?"

She felt Rhysand's eyes on her, but Feyre kept her attention on that Lord.

If she was going to sit there and be seen as idiot enough to serve a murderous King, Feyre at last wanted to hear proof.

"Lord Tamlin, tell us what evidence you have gathered," Rhysand ordered only for her benefit.

"Well, Feyre," Tamlin drawled out her name like it was a joke, "The assassin we captured and questioned said he was hired with Northern coin. He was able to supply us with the very gold he was paid with."

"So? This proves nothing," she said.

"Upon inspection," Tamlin continued joyfully, "It was immediately clear it came from your King's treasury. The assassin also said he had no affiliation with the North, only a hired body, so to speak." His eyes suddenly dropped to her breasts with a sneer, "I would think you would understand such a concept, in your line of work."

The hall went silent as Tamlin revealed a terrible grin.

But Feyre did not look away. No, she kept her eyes on Tamlin with sheer ferocity.

Damn all of them for making her feel less than. Damn the King for sending her here even knowing a sliver of this.

But most of all, damn Rhysand for springing it all on her.

Had that been the goal the entire time? To make the ward of the King look like a weakened girl to raise his people's moral.

Or perhaps this was the final reveal before she became a prisoner of war. Nothing but a chip to give to the King whenever it played well.

But even if Rhysand would not say of the sort, Feyre would not remain quiet.

"I assure you, Lord Tamlin," she said calmly, for Feyre could not show how the words rattled her. They were the truth, after all, "I am well-versed in what you speak of. But despite what you think, I am also well-versed in the King's strategies." She gave a tight smile, "He would simply not risk a war when he needs your people's gold and cooperation."

The conviction in her voice alone, seemed to satiate him. But even as Tamlin sat back in his seat; his green eyes remained on her breasts.

He no doubt, thought what everyone else did. That not only was Feyre a glorified tool of a murderous King's, but a once-been whore.

Feyre longed to shift out of her face; into anything else to deflect the feeling of their judgment. Because within her own, true, features, Feyre felt as if she was that girl again.

Right back begging in the streets.

"I think Feyre is owed an apology." A voice suddenly commanded. Every head turned to Rhysand. But his eyes remained leveled on Tamlin.

"Why should I?" The Lord all but scoffed.

"Well," Rhysand started, "Firstly, I know you mock Feyre because you feel your own short-comings in this court. Perhaps as a man as well. And secondly, she is ten times the person you ever will be. Apologize. Now."

"And if refuse?"

"Then you won't like the alternative." Rhysand's quiet power seemed to cover the room like an invisible blanket. Tamlin must have felt the same as he visibly hesitated.

But with a final lingering glance towards the Prince's hardened gaze, Tamlin bowed his head to Feyre.

"Sorry," Tamlin all but gritted.

"I don't think everyone heard you." Rhysand made a show of putting his hand to his ear. Tamlin clenched his teeth.

"I apologize, Lady Feyre," he said too grandly to be considered genuine, "Please forgive me."

"I don't think I believe you," Rhysand answered before Feyre could.

Feyre glanced at the helm, to find a stern Prince had replaced the man she had come to know. Gone was the kind Rhysand, now something far more sinister took his place.

"I want to see you on your knees," Rhysand ordered. His words rattled everyone in the room, including Feyre. For he was not her Rhys anymore.

No, now he was acting like the protector of the biggest realm in their world.

He was acting like a King.

Tamlin only continued keep up the fight.

"I will not kneel to some northern whore wearing a southern skin," he sneered, "Even if she is warming your bed."

Everyone went deathly still, as did Feyre.

So these Lords knew what she was. Knew that she could shapeshift. And that her and the Prince had intimate relations. Or had an inkling at least.

Rhysand only smiled.

But there was no ounce of kindness in the gesture.

He stood in one fluid, no mistake in the power Rhysand held. For Feyre could feel his magic surge, edging at her mind as she realized what was about to happen.

"You will regret having said that," Rhysand said. And in two swift seconds, the Prince of the Night Court had Tamlin under his control.

The only sound in the entire hall was Tamlin's knees hitting the floor. It was a loud crack that would remain in Feyre's mind for all time.

The rest of the table was frozen; watching the Lords' muscles start to tremor. Tamlin's once green eyes turned bloodshot from the struggle.

Rhysand's eyes however, were void of all emotion. Only intent on his victim.

And as Tamlin gasped for breath, his limbs starting to shudder in dispute…

Feyre could do nothing but stare.

When she managed to pull her eyes from the spectacle, Feyre saw Rhysand fully.

A man once rumored to be ruthless when it came to his people; able to sacrifice anything for their welfare. Now hurting one of his own—a nobleman nonetheless—in her name.

It didn't make sense.

But whatever nonsense or sense his actions held, Feyre wasn't going to stand by them any longer.

Even if these people thought she tolerated a murderous King, Feyre would not tolerate a cruel Prince.

"Stop it Rhys," she said. All attention went to her.

She knew why. Feyre had called him Rhys; outing the fact just how close her and the Prince had become.

But she went only on, "Let him go," she said more firmly. Rhysand blinked.

"Do you know who this man is, Feyre?" he growled; eyes intent on the now convulsing Tamlin, "He would turn this world over if it meant he got what he wanted."

"Even so. You have done enough."

"I—I am sorry," Tamlin whimpered as he looked to her. Either on his own accord, or by Rhysand's order.

"You're forgiven," Feyre bit as she faced Rhys, "Now let him go."

Something crossed over Rhysand's features at her order. Anger. Frustration. A mix of the two.

But the next moment he released Tamlin; brushing off an invisible piece of lint from his shoulder like it was nothing.

He strode back to the head of the table.

"See?" Rhysand said as he un-buttoned his jacket and sat down in choking grace, "That's all you needed to do in the first time. Now get up. I strip you of your lands and title. And I never want to hear of you stepping foot in this kingdom ever again."

He waved a hand in dismissal. Two guards appeared to drag the limp body of Tamlin away.

Feyre surveyed the rest of the men and women that shared the table. They deftly avoided her gaze.

Rhysand merely righted himself in his seat. The doors slammed as the rest of the hall was left in deathly silence.

"Now, where were we?" Rhysand asked. But Feyre was already leaving; throwing down her napkin as she strode across the marble floor.

And despite all the other times Feyre had turned her back to the Prince, this was the only time Rhysand's eyes did not follow her out.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Feyre was awake in her chambers long into the night, replaying the imagine of Rhysand making that Tamlin squirm on the ground over and over.

Along with the killing of those bandits. All of it, Rhysand had done, to protect her.

But Feyre had not asked for any of it.

Yet beyond every other shock, one remained at the edge of her mind.

Rhysand hadn't told her about the King and Queen.

Instead, he had chosen shock and awe like he always had.

But it was then that Feyre heard a light knock on the door.

"Feyre? It's Mor. Are you awake?"

She let out a deep sigh; not particularly suiting company at the moment, but she very well couldn't refuse the Princess.

"Yes, come in." Feyre was met with the soft smile of the Princess of the Night Court. She could not return the gesture.

"Sorry for the intrusion," Mor's face was drawn with concern, "But I heard what happened at dinner. And I wanted to see how you were fairing."

"To be honest?" Feyre breathed, "Not well."

"I see. And that's why Cassian, Az, and Amren weren't there. Rhysand gets rather protective of us. And some Lords do not agree with all my brother keeps in his inner circle."

"But why make such a spectacle?" Feyre asked, "Doesn't he know I don't need to have my honor protected. Gods know that ship has long since sailed."

Mor gave Feyre a pained expression, "May I sit?"

"Of course." She said. asas sheMor gently took Feyre's hands into hers.

"I don't pretend to know you," the Princess said, "But I see how Rhys cares for you. So that means there must be something worth protecting, even if you don't see it yourself."

"I never asked to be protected. I think Tamlin's words offended Rhysand more than they offended me."

"Maybe so," Mor agreed, "But if you must know only one thing about my brother, is that he will defend his friends no matter what. And despite what you may think, if anyone slighted me or Amren; or even Cassian and Azriel, Rhysand would have done the same for us."

"Really?"

"Well," Mor wavered with a chagrin, "I don't think he would have a chance to defend Amren before she killed that person herself."

Feyre laughed at that, "I dare say you're right."

"But that's not what bothering you, is it?"

Feyre sighed. "Why didn't he just tell me what happened to your parents outright?"

"As usual, Rhys is always strategizing." Mor pressed her lips together, "I can't say for sure, but I can presume he wanted to show your true shock to the assassination. In order to prove that you had no hand in any of the King's wretchedness."

"I suppose I should be thankful," Feyre grumbled, "I just don't like being kept in the dark. The King always kept me in the dark. I don't want to be pushed aside anymore."

"Then tell Rhys that. Believe me when I tell you how hard it was for him to keep secrets from you."

Feyre nodded.

"So," Mor said a bit brighter, "Can you look past Rhysand's, perhaps, quick judgment earlier, and help us stop this war?"

"I didn't ask to be a King's ward, I didn't ask for my magic. And I certainly didn't ask to be thrown into any of this."

"I know," Mor said, "But Rhys also didn't ask to be a Prince. But he still does what's best for his kingdom and his people."

"Tamlin didn't deserve what Rhysand did to him."

"What if I told you that he was a spy?" Mor quirked a brow, as Feyre went still. "Sent by your King to push our countries into war. And take you back to the North; either with your will or against it?"

Feyre swallowed. "Tamlin worked for the King?"

Mor nodded, "No one expects you to trust us right away. But at least keep an open mind during these coming days. Especially about Rhys."

"I don't think I can promise all of that," Feyre said. It had taken her years to trust anyone besides her sisters. And even then, she was careful to keep her real heart guarded.

And just when she had started to open it a bit; to show her real face, disastrous circumstances followed.

Mor only gave Feyre a tentative smile. "Can you at least try?"

"I can."

"Then I can finally bid you good night. But I am only two doors down in you need me."

Feyre nodded, "Thank you."

Mor smiled before leaving, and the only sound was the click of the door behind the Princess.

And Feyre was left to ponder her own mixed feelings on the wildly mysterious Prince of the Night Court.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"So are you technically Queen, now?" Feyre asked Mor as they sat down in her chambers for breakfast.

It was that following morning. The Princess had shown up the instant Feyre had awoken and invited her to the private meal.

Somehow Mor had known that Feyre would not want to see the Rhysand for a while; offering they eat in seclusion instead.

Feyre had long since changed from her own skin to another's. This one safely southern and average. Not in any way resembling her true features. And Mor thankfully hadn't asked about the change.

Beyond complimenting Feyre's beauty as always.

"We have different titles here," Mor shrugged, "But in your terms, I remain Princess and Rhysand is still Prince. For the time being."

"What titles do you use, then?"

"Well, to begin with. We don't have Kings and Queens here in the Night Court. We have High Lords and High Ladies."

"What?"

Mor smiled. "We have no word for King or Queen in our language. Only the highest title a Lord can have. Which is what Rhysand will become."

Feyre bit her lip, "I don't mean to be rude, but uh, when did the….incident happen? And is it not you who will ascend the throne as High Lady?"

"It's been a few months now since our parent's passing," Mor said with a weak smile, "Enough for it to be proper for a new High Lord to inherit the title. But no matter how long it has been, Rhysand does not feel rushed to take our parents' place."

"But it will be your throne when you wish to take it, will it not? I mean, you are their blood heir, while Rhys is only adopted."

"Our parents made Rhysand their son in every way there is," Mor said with no ounce of doubt, "And since he is the eldest, he is technically next in line. All he would have to do to assume the throne is choose a companion."

"So why does he not just marry?" Feyre asked, "Does Rhysand not wish to be King—er I mean, High Lord?"

Mor smiled wide. "My brother will not give his heart just to anyone, Feyre. Not even for his Kingdom."

"But why? Surely he has always known love is out of the question for a man like him."

"He says he will bow to no one but his equal."

"That seems…dramatic."

Mor eyed her with meaning. "Well, you know better than anyone how Rhysand has an inkling towards the theatrics."

Feyre rolled her eyes at that. Gods knew, she had come to know the full extent of Rhysand's expertise in that aspect.

"But why does a High Lord require to marry, surely he could rule on his own?"

"It's been this way for centuries," Mor shrugged, "While other countries think a King can rule on his own, our history has said otherwise. Why reign alone when you can be stronger together?"

Feyre was struck silent at that.

Being alone had always been so natural. Even with sisters, Feyre had always been the one to take care of their welfare. And no matter how she tried, that was something that alienated her from her family.

"But let's not talk of Rhys any longer," the Princess scoffed, "I was told he wanted you to come to the meeting this morning. But as far as I'm concerned you can stay as far away from him until you feel comfortable seeing his face again."

"Thank you," Feyre said. But Mor's previous words only continued to echo through her head.

 _No one but his equal._

A strange thought. Feyre couldn't imagine anyone in the history of the world that would equal Rhysand.

There was a sudden knock on the door. Feyre froze at the sound. The princess steadied her with a gentle hand.

"Who is it?" Mor called.

"It's Cassian."

"And?" Mor called rather annoyed. Feyre stifled her chuckle.

"And…Rhys would be pleased to see you in throne room in half an hour. You would wise to be there early. We don't want to make him more upset after what happened yesterday."

"I don't care if he is pleased or not. I will be there when I am there."

"Please?" Cassian groaned, "Azriel and I are the ones who have to deal with him when he's in a pissy mood."

Mor rolled her eyes to Feyre, "Fine. Be down in a minute."

And only after they both listened to Cassian's retreating steps did they rise to dress.

"Those insufferable males—" Mor huffed as she bent for a bite of toast, "All they do is boast to one another while Amren and I are forced to listen. You, Feyre—" the Princess held up an elegant finger, "Of course, are welcome. I know I would be happy for another female to balance the scales. Plus, your help is paramount as we chose to move forward."

"I want to help," Feyre stated, "If war is foreboding, I want to know that I tried to stop it."

Mor nodded to that, "If you are to come, we must get you in something better than your sleep robe."

"What's wrong with this?"

Mor was already riffling through her rather large closet.

"Well, for one thing, it's a bit matronly," the Princess pointed her eyes at the concealing lace and silk.

"Would you prefer what I wore last night?" Feyre teased.

"Not quite what I meant," Mor grinned, "I don't know what your maids were playing at. But we don't want to give all the males' heart-attacks again. My brother especially."

Feyre went thin-lipped at that. But a knock sounded again that saved her from answering.

Mor gave a heavy sigh. "Will you not leave us be?" She shouted, clearing expecting Cassian at as she wretched open the door.

But it was not Cassian.

It was Rhysand who stood in the entrance. He cocked his head as soon as he saw Mor's rather shocked expression.

"No, sorry," he smirked, "But since I'm so handsome, I'd hoped you wouldn't mind."

"Rhys! What are you doing here?" Mor motioned behind her back for Feyre to get out the line of sight.

She fled into the open closet. But that didn't stop the blush from rising to Feyre's face.

Was it possible Rhysand had grown more handsome than the last time she saw him? As if after releasing a bit of his magic made him look more carefree.

"I wish you would have announced yourself." Mor bumbled as he stepped inside. Rhysand stopped in the middle of the room.

Feyre backed further behind the shield of the dresses.

"Didn't think I had to," his smooth voice made Feyre's body go loose, "Why, were you expecting one of your numerous courtesans?"

Mor groaned. Rhys gave the room a once over; his eyes lingering on the plate of fruit.

"Unless one is already here," he said with a glance to the open closet. Feyre sunk deeper within the silk and satin.

"When will you learn nosiness never wins you any favors?" Mor said, effectively bringing Rhysand's attention back to her.

"Never," he grinned before popping a raspberry into his mouth, "I only came to ask if you were attending today's meeting. There's a lot to discuss after yesterday."

"I heard," Mor smiled, "And if you haven't already, you definitely scared off every potential wife with that trick of yours."

"You know I don't care about any of that. I will bow to no one but—"

"—I know, I know. Your equal." Mor finished with the roll of her eyes. "But Mother and Father would be disappointed if they knew you were still hung up by your past. You need to look at what is in front of you, Rhys, not behind."

Rhysand went still at that. "Look in front of me?" He paused directly in front of the closet.

Mor deftly stepped ahead of him.

He narrowed his eyes. "What are you hiding, Mor?"

"I'm not hiding anything," she answered too fast. Feyre winced at the Princesses' horrid lying.

"Yes," he said, "I think you are. Because you were just preaching. And you only do that when you want to deflect me from your own secrets."

Feyre held her breath. And Mor did the same.

"—But only because you're right, will I let you keep them. For now," Rhysand headed towards the door, "Oh, and if you happen to see Feyre, tell her she's welcome to come to the meeting as well. I don't think she wants to see me for a long while."

"I will." Mor froze, "Only if I see her, of course," she corrected a moment later.

Rhysand hesitated. But eventually opened the door, "See you soon," he called as Mor practically slammed it behind him.

Feyre heard it close with a thud. And only after waiting a few seconds to make sure Rhysand was really gone; did she finally step out.

"That was rather close."

"It was," Feyre sighed, "But why did you tell him to look at what was in front of him? He almost found me because of that."

"It's no matter!" Mor waved her hand, "Anyways, so much for giving you two time apart. I think you must come to this council meeting. Or else Cassian and Rhys will riot."

Feyre shrugged, "I couldn't have been avoided forever. But we should probably get going before Azriel decides to barge in next."

"Quite right." Mor agreed before they helping Feyre prepare for the royal meeting.

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 **A/N Tell me what you think. I love reading your guys' reviews and thoughts :)**


	9. Chapter 9

When Feyre entered the dining hall at Mor's side, everyone was already seated. It felt so different than the atmosphere at dinner. No more formalities; everyone was talking openly amongst one another.

And the only two chairs open were both next to Rhysand.

Feyre was careful to not let any emotion reach her face he approached a chair to his right. Rhysand's brows lowered as he offered—not his sister a chair, but her.

"I trust you slept well?" he asked Feyre softly.

She glanced to his open palm, remembering what that very hand had done yesterday. Not just give Feyre pleasure, but inflict pain to enemies as well.

"I slept a bit restlessly, to be honest." Feyre took her seat without his help. Rhysand faltered, but was quick to right himself.

"Sorry we were late," Mor said loudly enough to pull everyone's attention, "Rhysand, why don't you start, as not to waste any more time."

"Yes," He cleared his throat, "We need to think about damage control. Tamlin is probably in the North now, telling the King of our plans. What is our next move?"

"We need to contact our own spies," Cassian said, "Their intel is invaluable before we move forward."

Everyone murmured their agreement, but Feyre faltered.

Spies. She knew the King kept his fair share. But she never thought that the Night Court would have imbedded their own.

And Feyre's skin pricked to know anyone had been watching her. Did they report directly back to Rhysand?

"Until then, we need to be ready." Amren turned, "Feyre, what do we think the King's next move will be?"

Everyone spun for the answer. Feyre blinked.

"I—I don't know."

Azriel was the one to press, "You are the one who knows the King best. We know his intent by assassinating the High Lord and Lady was to weaken us. But for what? Does he wish to barter a new treaty for resources, or occupy the Southern Continent completely?"

"Both," Rhysand said before Feyre could, "When I was in the North, The King was insistent. He wants our gold and ore, yes. But he also wants control. Any discussion of a treaty would only serve as a distraction for him to mobilize."

"Do you think he would use his armada?" Amren's gaze flickered back to Feyre, "Or send a band of spies to dismantle us first?"

"Feyre?" Mor offered.

"Yes?"

"You've been keeping quiet. Don't be afraid, your opinion matters."

"I know," Feyre gulped at the many faces pointed at her, "But I—I cannot answer anything for sure. Not without risking gossip for truth."

Mor glanced to Rhysand. He stood to face the long wall of windows. Amren's attention remained hard on Feyre.

"We respect your care," Amren said after Rhysand departed, "But any conversations you might have overheard are invaluable. It might help us predict what he might do."

"I was never allowed in his council meetings," Feyre said. And everyone paused. Azriel and Cassian shot each other a look. Mor pressed her lips together.

Amren bristled. "You claim to know the King. But if this is all you can give us, one may argue you are nothing but a spy yourself."

"I am no spy," Feyre stated. She glanced to Rhysand; waiting for him to weigh his own opinion.

But all he said was, "Meeting is adjourned."

Every single person paused.

"Rhysand," Amren said, "There's no time. Save us the trouble and send this temptress back to the North where she belongs."

Feyre eyes watered, but she kept her chin high. Rhysand's next words were firm.

"I will do no such thing. And neither will any of you."

But Amren did not back down. "She needs to make a choice sooner or later."

Feyre looked to the silver-eyes woman, "I will help where I can. But I cannot be a spy; someone who shifts sides as soon as it suits them. I am not like Tamlin."

Amren's gaze was unwavering. Cassian and Azriel seemed unsettled. Mor glanced to her brother.

Feyre waited.

"This discussion is called off until further notice," Rhysand murmured. Everyone slowly left the table with a sigh.

Mor remained standing, as she spoke quietly with Cassian. Azriel and Amren went to their own conversation at the far-side of the room.

Feyre remained seated; watching Rhysand be pulled aside by a guard just before exiting the huge chamber. Before she was able to second guess herself, she was making her way over.

"Rhysand—" she started. He did not even glance to her. Although the guard stopped talking. "—Call back the meeting. I cannot have progress halted in my name."

Rhysand finally looked to her; the guard leaving with a bow.

"Mor told me you wanted to be a part of proceedings," he said, "I thought you had made your choice. It seems as though I assumed incorrectly."

"I want to be a part of discussion. Not I cannot turn spy. I was never educated in matters like these anyhow."

"I don't want you to be a spy. But you _are_ the only one who knows the King first hand. That means you have an important role to play."

"Yes." Feyre gritted. "But I was never on the council. I was his _tool_ , Rhysand. Nothing more."

Something flickered through his eyes at her words. But he recovered quickly.

"I guess you have to decide if you want to remain as one. There in the north, you will be nothing but an instrument to the King. But here, you can have a purpose." He turned to leave.

Feyre clenched her teeth at his back, "You know I can't ignore this war!" she called, "I cannot simply return home after what I've seen."

"I do," he turned with a quirk of his brow, "I'm counting on it. So it seems as though you have an important decision to make, Feyre darling."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I come in peace," Azriel raised his hands in defense when he found Feyre sketching in the garden. She was trying and failing to draw the rose bush in front of her.

Neula and Creddulin had followed her out, and Feyre couldn't ignore their silent presence. But at least the spy-master was looking at her with understanding and not wariness.

"I assume Rhysand sent you," Feyre motioned up to the towering palace, the gardens sitting far below the opposing rock and stone.

Yet it did not overshadow. Merely stood there, more comforting than impending.

"He didn't actually," Azriel said, "But Mor is terrified you're going to leave because of Amren."

"Pretty sure if I left now, the King would have me killed for treason. No matter how I have remained faithful to him."

"I'm afraid I agree. Your King was never known for his forgiving nature." Azriel gave her a steady look, "But no matter your decision, you will always be safe here."

"I would say Amren begs to differ. I think she'd trade me to the King just to never see me again."

Azriel gave a small smile. "It's not that," he said, "Amren knows Rhysand sees you more than a confidant. And she wants him to remain level-headed. Something he can't ever seem to keep around you."

Feyre huffed out a breath. "I guess I should be jealous the Prince has so many loyal friends."

"You shouldn't be jealous," Azriel's eyes dropped to his hands. Scars littered his palms; telling Feyre he had perhaps seen many hardships of his own, "Rhysand gets so much respect from his people because he has sacrificed everything for them. And as loyal we are to him, we are to you, Feyre."

She let out a shuddering breath, "Betraying the King; a man who plucked me from destitution is no easy task," Feyre glanced to the palace. "I don't think I can be what Rhysand needs me to be."

Azriel merely nodded.

"I know the feeling. But at least try to open yourself up to the idea that your King is not as perfect as you think. And realize no matter how caring Rhysand is, he is also a ruler. Sometimes you won't agree what he has to do because of that title. But he is always, himself."

"I guess I have no choice but to stay here," Feyre sighed. He just gave her a nod.

"Glad to her it," he said before nodding upwards. "But it's not me you need to be telling that."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The only sound Feyre heard in the empty hall was the whooshing of her trousers against her legs. These pair were also made out of thin shimmering silk that she was coming to adore; the color a deep gold that gathered to turquoise cuffs at her ankles.

A matching tunic fell over her breasts and waist like liquid silk. And the high slit at the shirt's side made the breeze kiss her skin with each step.

But that didn't mean she wasn't sweating profusely. Because Feyre was about to tell Rhysand, just why she was hesitant to stay.

That she felt unworthy; felt like a traitorous snake for even thinking of helping them. But deep down in that selfish part of her heart…

Feyre wanted to abandon her old life in favor of a new life here.

With Rhysand.

And that frightened her more than anything else.

Azriel had told Feyre that Rhysand could be found in his chambers.

Neula and Creddulin were silent as they led her to a pair of double doors. An entrance Feyre knew all too well.

The archway that lead to Rhysand's room was carved with ancient script. Feyre hadn't noticed the first time she had been there. But she couldn't help but pause to admire the symbols.

As if they were somehow familiar.

But then Nuela and Creddulin pushed the doors open. Feyre was met with a whoosh of citrus and sea as the air. It wafted outwards from the huge chambers. And as she hesitantly stepped in, Feyre saw no sign of Rhysand.

But before she could ask where the Prince had gone, the maids closed the doors. Feyre weighed returning to the throne room to wait.

Then she heard footsteps.

They were light but firm. And Feyre's skin pricked when she saw Rhysand round the corner.

Wearing nothing but trousers and a loose white shirt.

He halted as soon as he saw her. "Feyre?" he looked around the room, "What are you doing here?"

"I came to speak to you." Her attention fell to the open slit of his shirt. Then to the ruffled bedspread behind him. "But it seems as though I am interrupting something."

The duvet was thrown off as well. And her heart thundered.

Perhaps Rhysand had just been with a woman.

A potential High Lady.

"You didn't interrupt anything," he dismissed easily, "I had just finished with some training."

Feyre nodded, unable to find the words she needed to say.

How was it she had been seen so much with this man? Enough to let him touch her in ways no one had ever before.

And now she couldn't even look him in the eyes.

"I presume you've come to tell me that you have made your decision," he said.

"Did you have to read my thoughts to know that?"

"No. Body language mostly," he shrugged, "But your mind is also screaming at me that you're unsure."

Feyre gave him a long look, "I'm trying to sort this all out. It would help if you didn't peer into my thoughts while I do."

"Your King should have taught you to shield your mind."

"The King never knew there was anyone with magic besides me."

Rhysand gave a hint of a smile. "That being the truth or not, I still sense you're undecided. We best talk outside." He cocked his head towards the open balcony.

Feyre followed him out into the cool night to find the quiet stars staring back at them. She let out a whoosh of breath as Rhysand braced his arms on the railing.

"So what's holding you back," he asked.

"There are risks to consider," she sighed, "My sisters would be traitors by association. If I stay here long term, they would be destitute. The King's spies would hunt me for the rest of my life."

Rhysand remained unfazed.

"You feel responsible for their welfare," he said, "I too, wish to keep my own loved-one's safe. But your sister's will never be safe as long as you stay under the King."

"Yes, I understand it's rather complicated," Feyre gritted at his tone, "But how can I doom my sisters just to join your side? A side I don't even know is right?"

"Don't kid yourself, Feyre," Rhysand looked to her, "You know which side is right. As soon as the King ordered you to blackmail me, you knew."

"No matter what you might have read in my mind," Feyre said tightly, "I serve him to give my sisters a life I couldn't ever. You of all people should understand that."

He nodded back to the endless darkness before them. "But now I offer you more. I offer you a way out. From the tricks and scheming. Everything."

"So you say."

"I do. But nothing I offer will help if you keep craving what your siren gives you."

"And what is that?"

He let out a long breath. "Things I know all too well: purpose without responsibility. Whenever something goes wrong, all you have to do is slip on a mask. I understand how tempting that can be."

"You think you know me so well?" Feyre felt her defenses rise. Rhysand only faced her with solemn eyes.

"I know better than most. Remember I see you for you, Feyre."

"Perhaps if you truly saw me, you'd see why I'm so conflicted."

"I know everything you're going through from experience. You'd rather have ignorance than freedom." He waited for her answer. But Feyre recoiled.

"You think you're so clever," she said, "You think you still don't hide behind your magic?"

"There's a difference between honing power and hiding it. I could teach you the same. Only if you let me."

"Why would I ever take your word for anything?" Feyre surveyed him with hard eyes, "You were once a pirate. Even if you brush that aside like it never existed, _I_ know what you are."

His eyes wavered, but Feyre barreled on.

"See?" she laughed; a hollow sound to her own ears, "You're too afraid to acknowledge your own past. Perhaps even more than I."

"Tread carefully, Feyre," Rhysand said, but she was diving. Feyre was plunging headfirst into her pride; into her own insecurities.

Giving into Rhysand's magic.

"Not until you admit," she cocked her head with an eerie smile, "That everything you do is in the pathetic hope to undo what crimes you committed. I think you want to save this world so badly, Rhysand? Only because you were the one who originally destroyed it."

His eyes went hollow at that. And as soon as Feyre saw the pure vulnerability in those violet eyes, her anger dissipated at once.

Then she was left with guilt.

"Rhys, I—" she outreached her hand. He stood with a groan.

"No, you're right, Feyre," he said, sitting on a cushioned chair, "I was once a part of this world's downfall. I lied and tricked and deceived. Perhaps I do seek redemption for nothing but to undo those deeds," his eyes met hers, "But I would sooner damn myself than watch your King lead you down that same path."

Feyre let out a long breath. He only patted the seat beside him.

The cushion was wide enough to seat them both. It was decorated with countess pillows. And draped with blankets of fur.

And outdoor bed. Perhaps made specifically with stargazing in mind.

"Come here," he said. Feyre joined him the next moment.

Their hands brushed as he made room. Feyre remained on her side, but all she could concentrate was the heat radiating off of his body.

"Believe me. I want to stay and help," she finally said, "Even if that makes me a treacherous, lying snake for wanting as much."

"It doesn't," he said. Feyre let out a small huff at that. And when he didn't answer, she turned to find his eyes on her.

They were back to the kind, gentle warmth Feyre had grown accustomed to. And her chest ached by how Rhysand always forgave her so easily.

"Tell me why you care so much," she asked softly, "Why not just leave me rotting beside the King. Why risk your own head and kingdom?"

Rhysand let out a deep breath as he turned back to the inked sky, "When I heard that there was someone out there like me, I had to see for myself."

Feyre situated herself better on the cushion. She felt the space between her and Rhysand skitter along every inch of her skin.

But he kept his distance.

"What persuaded you?" she asked. He exhaled.

"That night in my rooms, when the King asked you to blackmail me, you refused. And I saw then, that you were like me. Scared and desperate for escape. That was when I knew, even if I took everything I had, I wouldn't leave you trapped like I had once been."

"Even if it means war?"

Rhysand paused. Feyre angled her head up at him. When she saw how his lips pressed, she laid a gentle hand on his.

His head shot to her. And what Feyre saw in his face: the guilt; but also, the hope…

She was helpless not to fall.

"I took you knowing the risks, Feyre," he said starkly.

She glanced down with a nod; making a move to remove her palm, but Rhysand caught it before she could.

"But some things," he murmured as he intertwined his fingers in hers, "Are worth risking everything for."

Feyre blinked at his stare. Tension hovered between them as he squeezed her hand.

Her eyes flitted between his own; desperate to find the truth there.

Was he feeling what she was? Was his heart threatening to burst from his chest like Feyre's?

Rhysand only gave her a soft smile; and she couldn't help herself any longer.

And so Feyre kissed him.

Deep and true, and full of emotions she didn't quite understand.

Rhysand froze from the sudden contact. But she surged on, pushing everything sliver of doubt or negativity into that kiss.

All the insecurity and the hatred she harbored because of what she was: it evaporated as Rhysand kissed Feyre back.

"I'm sorry," she whispered against his lips. His hands ran along her spine. "I got caught up. I let your magic get the best of me. And I am sorry."

"I'll forgive you if you agree to stay." He murmured, tugging her closer.

And she melted.

"I'll have to think about it," Feyre teased with a grin. He growled his own answer. "But in the mean time—" She lowered her mouth to his once more. Slow and lingering.

Rhysand hummed against her lips. She slid closer.

His hands tentatively went to her behind, but did not urge anything beyond that.

He tasted of citrus and sea, and Feyre moaned when Rhysand coated her every sense. She felt his warmth; smelled the familiar scent of his freshly washed skin.

Rhysand only took her groan as an opportunity to taste Feyre too. And as soon as their tongues intertwined, she was ignited.

But this desire Feyre felt deep inside was not just fire, but ice. Burning her from the inside out; driving down her core like a speeding avalanche.

Rhysand cupped her face; bringing their kiss deeper. Feyre yearned to soak up his very essence as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

And still, it wasn't enough.

She curled her fingers at the nape at his neck to gain more access to his mouth. A low growl rumbled from Rhysand's chest. His hold on her behind tightened.

"Feyre," he rasped; his tone a warning that they were approaching unknown territory.

She could feel as much; it was the end of the line from mere play into something else…

But Feyre's only response was hooking her leg around his. And then she ground her hips.

And everything in Feyre paused as she felt the hardness pressing at her core.

Rhysand let loose a snarl. Loud and possessive, but her lips were already at his throat.

Feyre was unable to reign in control as she licked the very sweat from his skin. It was as if her siren wanted to devour him completely.

And Feyre, for once in her life, agreed.

"You're not making resisting easy," he murmured. His fingers clutched at her hip. His other hand cradled her neck.

"That's because I don't want you to," Feyre said; capturing his lips again. Because she was aching.

Aching to feel what she had felt on that dance floor in Bahari City, while wrapped in his arms. Or what had been blooming chest in the bathing chamber when Rhysand had insisted on her and only her.

Feyre wondered if she would always ache when it came to Rhysand; as if she could ever be satiated from this indescribable need.

"What is it that you want from me? Truly?" He asked more firmly. But she only started to untie his shirt.

"No more talking unless its dirty." Feyre said, remembering how arousing it had been in the bathing pool. Even if she was a coward for saying it.

But Rhysand grabbed her chin; forcing her gaze to his.

"Are we doing this because of your siren, or something else?" he asked.

Feyre said nothing. She clawed at his shoulders so she could reach further to suck on his ear like some rabid animal. The next words she spoke, she knew he couldn't resist as she murmured low and craving,

"Is it so bad I want you? Are a siren and triton not made for each other?"

Something close to a purr rumbled from his throat. But as his eyes still flicked between hers, Feyre merely quirked a brow.

"Fine then," he growled. And before she knew it, she was moving—up, and up, until Feyre was seating astride the Prince of the Night Court.

Feyre groaned when she felt what was pressed against her center. She ground against him once more. Rhysand rose to pepper kisses along her neck.

Feyre shivered when the cool air struck the wet skin. But she was warmed as he palmed her breasts.

She reveled in the rigidity of the man beneath her. His body pressed against hers in the best way. But Feyre needed more.

She shed her tunic easily as Rhysand's eyes lit to her bare chest.

"You, Feyre darling," he smirked, "Are definitely not playing fair."

But Feyre had no intention of sticking to the rules.

"You could make it fair by taking off this shirt." She trailed her finger down his abdomen. But his attention was glued to her naked breasts.

Two torches flickered from the corner of the balcony. The pale moonbeams gave them the rest of the light needed. Feyre smiled when he had yet to answer.

"Would you rather I undress you?"

"Not quite," His mouth flicked up in a smirk as he took her hands in his.

She cocked her head in confusion. But he brought her palm between them; Feyre's questioning eyes turned into lust.

Because Rhysand rested her palm right over the hardness she craved. Her gaze met his with equal heat; his was full of challenge as he quirked a brow.

"Would you say this makes it fair?" He finally pulling the simple shirt over his head.

Feyre couldn't answer as her gaze roved to his shoulders, to the muscled chest that met the rigid contours of his abdomen. The dim light made his skin look that much richer.

And her mouth watered.

"Perhaps," Feyre fingered the tie of his trousers. He tensed. "But it depends. What would you have me do?"

She slid back to trace a lazy finger over his taught thighs, Feyre was happy to see his cock twitch in response.

"Devious siren," he growled. She grinned wider.

"Well? Are you going to tell me?"

"I want you to touch what is yours."

Feyre bent lower. "Touch what exactly?"

A purr vibrated in his chest. "I want you to touch my cock."

Feyre felt a feral smile spread across her lips.

"Like this?" she asked; palming him roughly. Rhysand jolted, his eyes narrowing in warning.

This game she was playing, although satisfying, was also making Feyre's siren boil. The need for him was making Feyre turn into something she didn't recognize.

But the mere thought of bringing Rhysand pleasure… had her slipping past all of that. Now it was just her and him.

And their magic.

"Touch me bare, Feyre," Rhysand finally said. And she actually purred.

It took only the tie of his trousers, and he was laid bare for her. Feyre's eyes widened at the sight.

Rhysand was more glorious than she could have imagined, hard and thick and waiting for her. Feyre did not hesitate as she wrapped her hand around his girth. Rhysand let out a long hiss, and her core heated.

She thought of what it would be like for him to be inside her. For him to fill Feyre until she was nothing or no one, but his.

But first, she longed to repay him for that bathing chamber first. Feyre wanted to taste him.

"What are you thinking of?" Rhysand titled her chin upwards with a single finger, and her heart clenched at the care in his eyes.

"I was imagining of how you would taste," she answered. And all of Rhysand's breath left his chest.

But before he could say anything else, Feyre did just that.

"Fuck," he cursed roughly. His accompanying groan greeted her ears as she swirled her tongue around the tip. And Feyre had never felt more powerful.

The urging in her chest; the wetness between her legs; it had never been so insatiable as it was with Rhysand.

She suddenly remembered what they spoke of just yesterday; that magical beings like them were connected. And Feyre didn't doubt it in the slightest.

Because tasting him, hearing Rhysand's breathy moans as his fingers tangled into her hair; it was making much more than arousal rush through her.

There was a tightness in her very soul. As if a tether was pulling it closer and closer to an unseen target.

But Feyre did well to concentrate on the task at hand; humming as she took what she could of him.

When Rhysand's hands tightened in her hair, Feyre started working faster.

Whatever length she couldn't take, she wrapped her hand around.

And when Feyre looked up she found the violet of Rhysand's eyes glowing.

"By the Gods," he moaned. He threw his head back a when she took him that much deeper, "Feyre," he drawled out her name slowly. She tried not to grow drunk off the sound.

She hummed again. To know that she was bending, perhaps the most powerful man in the world, to her whim.

But when she felt his hand trying to push her away, Feyre did not withdraw. She wanted to taste every ounce of him.

"You don't have to," Rhysand breathed when he realized her intent. But he receded a second later.

As always, Rhysand seemed to know what excited Feyre, what deepest desires she held.

So when he finally reached that point, he let nothing but Feyre's name fall from his lips.

And she swallowed everything.

Both of their chests were ragged as Feyre removed herself. And from the look of Rhysand's gaze alone, she knew he was far from done.

"I hope you know what that just got you." He gave a dark smirk as he dropped to his knees. Feyre let out a sigh as he laid her down, only to quickly slip off her silk pants.

"Why don't you tell me?" she groaned as he ran a broad hand from her throat to her stomach. Her hips bucked as he traced the line of her lace undergarment.

"That got you anything you could ever wish for," he teased her through the fabric; parted her legs.

Slowly.

Feyre arched as he peppered kisses along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. She groaned when he stopped.

"And what if I wanted a crown?" she breathed, as if jewels weren't the last thing on Feyre's mind. She wanted nothing but that wicked mouth back on her.

But Rhysand had went suddenly still.

His hands clenched around her legs. And as she waited for her answer, Feyre realized what she had said out loud.

A crown.

"You wish for a crown, Feyre?" he said. She looked down to find Rhysand's face unwavering.

"I uh, only meant—" Feyre cut off. There was no hint of teasing in those violet eyes. Only more heat than she could fathom.

And then a far different feeling than arousal settled in her stomach.

"You know I was teasing, Rhys," she turned her eyes to the stars, "I was speaking of receiving gold or jewels rather than—"

Rather than what?

"Rather than me finally tasting you, or rather than you sharing my throne?" Rhys quirked.

Both sentences were filled with equal emotion.

"I don't know." She sat upright. His brows rose.

"You have to admit, it's a rather spectacular thought. A siren and triton, ruling the world."

He had said it to make her feel better. But Feyre saw it in his stature: his silent answer.

"I was only jesting to try and catch you off guard, I didn't possibly think—" She pressed her lips together.

"Teasing aside, name it and its yours," Rhysand voice was serious.

Feyre had to look away, suddenly reaching for something to cover her naked torso.

Rhysand retracted with utter concern. And she felt a lump in her throat as fell back on his heels.

' _He vowed to bow to no one but his equal,'_ the words echoed inside her skull. But Feyre was anything but his equal.

Rhysand was trying to undo the sins of his past' trying to give her that same opportunity. While Feyre was too scared to leave behind a King that did nothing but take.

"I have to go," she said, pulling the only fabric she could find over her head. Only to find it was Rhysand's shirt that hung to her knees.

"Did I do something wrong, Feyre?" he asked, "If you didn't want to do—" he blinked down to his nakedness"—that. All you had to do was say so."

"No. I wanted to, believe me."

His eyes remained concerned. But Feyre needed to find where her pants had gone. Had they fallen over the balcony during the trawl?

"Then what's wrong?"

"I just think this was a mistake," she lied. But Feyre needed to leave fast.

And Rhysand was looking at her with too much emotion.

"Just hold on for a moment," he called, following her inside. There, she found her pants, and quickly wretched them on as he did the same.

"Feyre, just talk to me." He caught her elbow just as she reached for the door.

She paused with utter guilt ridden on her features.

How had Feyre let this happen? How had she allowed herself to dream of a life with Rhysand even for a second?

"I have to go," was all she said.

"Look," he said rather desperately, "If you just wanted to be friends, that's fine. But I want you to stay."

"I can't do this," Feyre said as she grabbed the door knob.

"Then if you know anything, know you have a place here. No matter what that may be."

Feyre finally allowed herself to look at him. But she had to press her lips together to stop from crying.

Because she wanted to be anything but Rhysand's friend.

She wanted more.

But she would never be his equal.

"I uh, need more time to decide what I'm going to do." Feyre said only to satiate him. Rhysand seemed to accept that.

She gave him a curt nod before pulling open the door. And she made sure she was around the corner before she let the tears fall.

Idiot. Fool. Had she not been taught by her siren? Someone like her could never be a companion. Her nature didn't allow it.

Feyre was still trying to clamp down on her tears as she realized she still wore his shirt.

Gods it smelled exactly of Rhys as she stuffed the excess length into the waist of her trouser. She crudely took the sash from her tunic as a belt. But Feyre needed to go to her room and change out if it fast.

It was then she ran into a hard body.

"Shit," A male voice swore. Feyre was quick to right herself, only to find Cassian already on his feet.

"Feyre? What are you doing down here?" he asked as his eyes dawned on just where she had come from. But he did well to push past it, "I'm mean, I didn't see you there."

"How did you know it was me?" Feyre had put on a servant's face as soon as she left the meeting this morning; as not to hold suspicion if she was seen entering Rhysand's rooms.

But Cassian's eyes widened when he saw her wet cheeks. "Never mind that. You're upset about something. What's wrong?"

She quickly wiped her cheeks. "I'm fine. But how can you see past my magic to know it's even me?"

"Rhysand taught us ways to see through his own. Those same skills can roughly apply to your power. But I want to know what has made you react so."

She sucked in a breath.

"You must tell me who," Cassian said, "And I will happily kick their asses for you."

Feyre let loose a laugh at that. "No one made me upset, it's just—I miss my sisters, is all."

It wasn't an altogether, outright lie. But Feyre still wondered if she told Cassian it had been Rhysand who had upset her, would kick his own Prince's ass.

Probably.

That thought alone made Feyre's chest lighten.

"I see." Cassian looked that much more distraught. Feyre's lips wobbled.

Curse these men Rhysand kept at his council. Why did any of them care for someone like her?

"I assure you I will get over my emotions in time."

"Well, if you wanted your sisters here, you only should ask."

"No!" She cried. Feyre receded before saying softer, "I don't want them put in any more danger."

Cassian's jaw clenched at that, "They would sooner be in danger in your country than they would be here."

"I believe you. But if it's all the same, they need to stay in the north. Now, I'm sure you have duties more important than listening to me."

"Nonsense. I'll make sure you've regained your composure first. Even if it takes the day."

Feyre opened her mouth to object, but found herself unable to come up with an excuse, "I appreciate it."

Cassian simply offered her his arm.

"So what do you propose?" she sniffled before quickly wiping her cheeks. Cassian smiled.

"To start? We're going to see about sending your sisters a letter."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The trip to the aviary was rather quick. There, a pigeon would take Feyre's scroll to a mailing ship heading to the Northern capitol.

Despite the many steps up a steep tower to get there, Cassian kept comfortable conversation. Mostly about Feyre's sisters. And their time spent at court.

But as Feyre wrote her letter to ask how her sisters were doing, she felt that familiar lump return to her throat.

"What's the matter?" Cassian asked. Feyre paused her writing.

"If the King thinks I am kidnapped like Rhysand intended, once my sisters receive this letter, it would say otherwise."

Cassian shrugged, "Tamlin is probably already at your King's ear telling him of your where-abouts. So, there is no harm with letting your sisters know you are safe."

Feyre warily agreed. And after giving her letter to a messenger pigeon, her chest lifted to know her sisters would know she was okay.

"Now, do you wish to go anywhere else?" Cassian offered, "Perhaps a tour of the city would liven your spirits? We could invite Mor. Although I am much better company."

Feyre felt a smile lift her face. "I would like that, actually." She had yet to have an official tour of Velaris, and she wanted to see what it boasted of.

But just as they rounded the stone steps at the bottom of the aviary tower, Azriel was there with grim eyes.

"What is it?" Cassian asked as soon as he saw the spy-master's drawn face.

"A fleet of ships was seen on the horizon."

"And?" Cassian asked, "Do they bring war?"

"No. The opposite. They are filled with refugees."

"Refugees? From where?" Feyre looked between the two men, and they both looked to her, both they're faces suddenly drawn.

"They're from the North."


	10. Chapter 10

"What is being done to help?"

Cassian nodded, "Everyone is coming together to try and see to that. You are welcome to come, Feyre. These are your people after all."

The words weren't meant to scorn. But simply an offer.

And even if she wasn't entirely ready to see Rhysand after their previous encounter, Feyre nodded.

"Then lead the way."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As she followed Cassian and Azriel to the throne room, Feyre looked out to see the people lining the lower streets and docks. Mobs of shadows dotted the city center as they left the ships.

And they were fleeing from a man Feyre served.

She swallowed back the urge to vomit.

"Do we have any estimated numbers?" Feyre called up to Cassian. But it was Azriel that answered,

"This last load will put the numbers into the thousands. Most are farmers and their families. But some worked in the inner city before the King bought out their businesses."

Her chest seized.

Thousands. Thousands of people that felt the need to leave their homeland because of their ruler.

"How'd they get here so fast, and in such vast numbers?"

"We're told they hid on any and all merchant ships," Cassian said, "This fleet is the last that made it out under the shade of night. We heard word the King has officially halted trade between the North and the South until Rhysand signs his treaty."

Her throat turned dry.

"Don't worry Feyre." Cassian saw her pinched face, "We will figure this all out. No one will be turned away. Rhysand too, has once been an outsider in a strange country."

Feyre ignored whatever insight into Rhysand's life as they finally reached their destination.

The stone room was different now in the dark. Flames flickered on the walls. Candles were now lit on the many chandeliers. And it left everything in a different air.

Mor and Rhysand were already speaking. Amren was listening with hard eyes. An expression Feyre knew all too well.

Even as her group drew close enough, no one gave notice. Apparently, they were too deep in discussion.

She quietly took a seat across from Cassian and the Princess. Azriel sat between her and Amren.

Rhysand remained pacing at the front of the chamber.

"There's too many," Amren suddenly said, "There's not enough housing, not enough jobs. I'm afraid most will end up more destitute than they were before."

Feyre blanched at the word. Destitute. She knew the desperation that came with poverty.

All too well.

Rhysand only shook his head, "Every human life has worth beyond the skill they hold or the gold in their pocket," he said.

"Mor," Cassian turned to the princess, "Do the shelters have enough beds to house them temporarily."

"I'm afraid not," Mor said, "We over-ridden with the previous wave. And our facilities cannot fit more without risk of disease or compete exhaustion of our resources."

"Any other suggestions?" Amren quirked. Her eyes flicked to Feyre.

"We can house some men in the army barracks," Azriel spoke. Feyre sighed from the rescue as Amren turned.

"Most women and children can stay in the servants' quarters," Cassian added, "But the rest will be homeless until we can move them elsewhere or they can afford their own housing."

Rhysand let out a deep sigh as he rubbed between his brows. Feyre couldn't help but feel useless.

Everyone there had a station; had their area of expertise. While she was nothing but a temptress turned barely helpful ambassador.

"Feyre, tell us what you make of this," Mor suddenly asked, "Why do you think the King is forcing people from their land?"

"I don't know," she said truthfully, "Unless he plans to mine for gold, or use for agriculture, I can't think of a reason. As far as the heavy taxation he's implementing, I don't know what he needs all the money for. The crown has more than enough wealth."

"War." Mor answered the silence in the room. The spy master merely leaned forward.

"Do you know any more, Feyre?" Azriel inquired, "What would the King speak of with his council? Did he ever talk of invading?"

"Like I said, I was never allowed in his council meetings. When with me, he only spoke of the treaty."

"How is that possible?" Amren said then, her face telling Feyre how little she was convinced. Actually, all of them looked wary.

"Careful," Rhysand warned. But Amren remained firm,

"No. I won't listen to this. Either Feyre gives us real intel, or she shouldn't be allowed to stay here. Especially while across an ocean and right below us, her own people suffer."

"Amren." Rhysand said a bit louder, "I don't need to remind you all that Feyre is our only northern ally. Berating her does us no good."

Feyre sighed at the solidarity. Amren returned to her seat-back.

"Apologies, Feyre, for our pestering" Mor said, "But any scrap of knowledge, no matter how small, can help.

She swallowed.

"I know is that the King is obsessed with expanding his reach," Feyre said, "That's why he wants a treaty with your continent. He always was looking for more resources. But I can't fathom why he would push his own people out in the process."

Everyone seemed to think on that. It was Amren that turned to Rhysand, "We still need to figure out where to put everyone. Northern spies will see our resources strained and the weakness of such. The trick you pulled with Feyre, by humiliating the King, has not helped. The North will find any excuse to make war, Rhysand. Make no mistake."

Everyone was silent. Even Rhysand.

So it was left up to Feyre.

"Perhaps," she glanced around them, "The answer is right in front of our noses."

"What are you suggesting, Feyre?" Cassian asked. Everyone turned with upturned brows. Except Rhysand.

He remained facing the expanse of windows. Perhaps looking to where hundreds of feet blow, refuges begged for his sanctuary.

"I mean, you have this giant palace. And no one to fill it with," Feyre gestured to the sprawling chamber, "I hear all the Lords have their separate estates, and most of the servants leave every night to their own homes in town. Why not house the refugees here in the palace?"

Everyone blinked, but Feyre concentrated on Rhysand. He showed no emotion as he held his knuckle to his chin.

"It could work, Rhys," Cassian said, "Between the numerous ballrooms and guest suits. We could house a great deal."

"I am willing to give up my own quarters." Feyre offered, "I have six separate rooms I don't use. So why not forfeit a few. If it means we could save a few families, we have to try."

Feyre looked to the rest of the table, surprised when Amren was the first to say,

"I too, have rooms that could house others."

Cassian grinned, "I can stay with my men in the barracks. That would free up five more rooms."

Azriel nodded before saying, "I would be my pleasure to offer up my entire chambers."

"I needn't say that I too, give my own." Mor smiled.

Rhysand face was impassive as he turned to the table. But Feyre caught the hint of pride in his eyes.

"If this is going to work," he finally said, "We need to help in every way we can. Cassian and Azriel: give as many willing refugees a place in our army. Mor and Amren, work on finding jobs in town or in the fields for the rest." He finally looked to Feyre, "I thank you all for working so late. But let's get to work."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The night spun into early morning as Feyre joined Mor and Amren. Together, they welcomed the countless refugees to the Royal throne rooms.

Feyre herself, had carefully chosen a northern skin to wear during her work. Even if she mostly handed out care-packages with rations and clothing; recorded names and births before assigning each person or family to their room, Feyre felt useful.

For once in her life, she didn't have to use her magic to do something meaningful.

When the time struck around four in the morning, every man woman and child had food, water, clothing and shelter.

Feyre was finally settled in her common chamber. It had once been one of four giant rooms. Now they were home to several northern families.

Feyre's muscles screamed from the strain of the endless day. Her mind slackened with the grief of seeing so many faces that could have been her own. Yet exhausted, she could not sleep.

Faces of people that she didn't know; but shared a country with, were stuck in her mind. She didn't want to close her eyes; in fear she would see nothing but their suffering.

But all those thoughts were silenced when there was a quiet knock. And Feyre knew exactly who it was.

"Come in, Mor," Feyre called. She saw the princess's flowing blonde hair the next moment.

"I see you have the right idea." Mor looked to the nearly empty bottle of wine. Feyre held her glass in salute.

"You could join me, you know."

"I'm afraid I bring different news," Mor said as she clasped her hands together. And Feyre sat straighter. "This is no longer where you will be staying."

She cocked her head, "I'm sorry, did I do something wrong?"

"Gods no," Mor dismissed, "But with a hundred refugees living in the palace, there's fear someone might harm you."

"I am safer amongst my own people."

"Your people they may be, but some may hold scorn because of your relation to the King," Mor winced, "If they ever found out who you were, Feyre, anyone could try to ransom you. Or even threaten your life."

"Then where am I to go?"

Mor's lips tightened, and Feyre knew the answer.

"Rhysand." She tried not to let her starkness reach her face. "Why can't I stay with you?"

"My quarters are not nearly as secluded. They would do no good in keeping you safe."

"I see Rhysand has thought of everything," Feyre replied brashly. For the bottle of wine and the stress of the day had left her too tired to care. Mor only pursed her lips.

"So," Feyre wavered, "Since there is no use in refusing, I can only ask you to lead the way."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Rhysand has already ordered the rest your things into the adjoining room," Mor said as they entered the Prince's chambers, "Make yourself at home here until the room is completely ready."

Her attention fell to the connecting door. Then to the balcony.

A place, only hours ago, had Feyre given Rhysand…

She pressed her eyes shut at the rest.

"Unlikely I'll feel at home." Feyre surveyed the bedroom with a slight scowl. Dawn was breaking through the windows. Mor must have read the fatigue on Feyre's face as she said,

"Feel free to sleep the rest of the day. Gods know how draining this all was," Mor paused at the door, "But before I go, I must thank you for your input, Feyre. You saved a lot of lives by suggesting we make some sacrifices of our own."

Feyre's mouth went a bit dry. "It's not much of a sacrifice offering a home that's not even mine."

Mor opened her mouth to answer but it was a molten voice that answered from behind.

"Don't sell yourself so short, Feyre darling."

They both spun to find a figure in the doorway. And Feyre's mood turned that much softer.

"Should have known you'd be lurking," Feyre crossed her arms at Rhysand. The Princess cleared her throat.

"Rest well, Feyre," Mor's eyes narrowed on her brother, "Rhysand, behave."

He feigned his offense. "When have I not?"

Feyre only watched the princess leave. And when the door finally closed, she waited.

"Did I do something to upset you?" Rhysand said.

"This can't happen between us," she said blandly; perhaps the wine making Feyre speak her mind, "For both our sakes."

"You only think the worst of me," he drawled. And Feyre realized the Rhysand she had seen in the throne room was gone. Perhaps to cope with the darkness of the world was to lighten it whenever he could.

But Feyre remained sour.

"I thank you what you're doing for my people. But you mustn't feel like you have to do the same with me."

His brows rose; perhaps that for once in Feyre's time here, he was suprised, "Your King is the enemy of every single one of those people. That includes you."

"I thought you wanted me to stop hiding beneath my siren," she challenged.

"What does that have to do with anything."

"I will never be accepted here," Feyre said, "Not when they realize who I am. I must go home after this."

He wavered, "You can't leave now. We need to let thinks die down a bit."

"I agree. And I will continue helping where I can. Then I leave," Feyre said. Rhysand nodded.

"Then I can only bid you good night." he paused as Feyre sidestepped him. "Or is it morning?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Either way," he smiled at her stern face, "Do us both a favor and keep the dreams to a minimum tonight. I can see every little thing, remember," he tapped his temple before quickly shutting the door.

"Prick," Feyre mumbled to herself, flopping into bed and sighing against the sheets.

But no matter how she fought against it, Rhysand's smiling eyes and smirking mouth were at the forefront of her dreams.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Feyre awoke with a throbbing head and an aching body. The bottle of wine she drank yesterday had made for a fitful sleep.

A light breeze blew through the open window. It was still dark out. So Feyre had slept the entire day. Grass shades were drawn, and soaked the room in dimness.

And then she recognized her surroundings.

"What the hell?" she sat upright, only to find herself in a bed she definitely had not been in before.

It was Rhysand's.

Feyre was in it alone. That was an important distinction, so she mentally patted herself on the back for that. But what a way to set herself up for failure.

She must have slept-walked over to his chambers during the day. It often happened whenever Feyre's magic took too much; making her prone to wandering.

Yet no amount of drink had ever made her climb into an entirely different bed.

But despite how she got there, she was still sitting in her silk underwear. Still clothed—she counted her undergarments as such.

It was when she heard the sound of running water. It was coming from a room Feyre knew all too well.

The bathing chamber.

And Gods damn her, Feyre was aroused by the mere thought.

She could have very easily gone back to her room and hope Rhysand hadn't noticed she had swapped beds. But she couldn't ignore the sound of that water running.

It echoed in her skull; telling her that rather than a pool, the Prince was putting use the shower spiket mounted on the ceiling.

And Feyre couldn't help but picture his body. Those broad shoulders, muscled chest and toned abdomen under the water's spray.

And then she started to imagine what they could do under that shower together.

But Feyre snapped her thoughts back in order. No matter how her siren begged; no matter how Feyre's own core ached, it could not happen.

Things were ever more complicated. The fate of Feyre's own people relied in how she dealt the next few days.

How she dealt with Rhysand.

But before was even aware of what Feyre was doing, she was laying back in the sheets. The luxurious silk smelled of him. His scent was so gods damned heavenly it was making her body go soft.

Plus the sound of the water, knowing Rhysand was bathing himself mere feet away….

Well, Feyre couldn't help but slip her hand under her shorts.

She closed her eyes with the picture of him. It was mostly dim, but it was enough to serve for what she needed.

Because if Feyre couldn't be with him ever again; or have something remain here forever…

That didn't mean she couldn't dream.

His own bed; and the sound of him showering served as the perfect backdrop. For Feyre to imagine what it could have been like.

If she stayed, perhaps the bed she laid in was as much hers as it was his; and the day would come when it was normal for Feyre to join him in that shower.

So when she reached her aching core, Feyre was drenched by the mere fantasy of her life with Rhysand. But it wasn't her fingers that were between her legs.

No, they were his, as she found that bundle of nerves with a sigh. Feyre went as far to conjured the sound of his moans.

The memory of them on that balcony together was already waning, but it still caused her breasts to peak.

And as she brought her other hand to her hardened nipples, it was Rhysand's broad palm that molded her flesh to his whim.

Feyre squeezed her eyes shut harder; imagined that same moon-lit veranda they had been on. The shade of night always made Feyre do things she never would do in light.

Including now.

But the dream changed as she pictured those devious lips about to taste her beneath the stars; what pleasure his tongue and lips could do in place of his fingers….

It was then that Feyre heard a moan that most definitely was not her own.

She stopped at once; terrified and frozen. But as she glanced around the room; she was by herself.

Feyre waited to see if she had heard correctly.

And then it happened again.

An unmistakable masculine moan floated from the bathing chambers. It was long and guttural, and something she had heard before.

Rhysand.

He was moaning.

In the bathing chamber.

Her mind and body slackened at once.

"Feyre," Rhysand's muted voice encircled her every thought. It was effort to reign in the siren.

She needed to leave. But Feyre was utterly motionless.

A few more groans greeted her ears and her body pricked with each new sound.

Then the mutterings grew raspier.

Feyre felt more than intrusive for listening, but she could not move; couldn't think as her heart thundered faster with each curse he uttered.

The sound of the water, mixed with her heavy breathing was all she could hear.

Then Rhysand let out a final moan.

And Feyre heard nothing but _her_ name from his lips.

She didn't know what to do as the water turned off shortly after. She had discarded her clothes in the night, so now she sat in nothing but her underthings.

In his bed.

At night.

Gods help her.

Her ears pricked to some shuffling; probably Rhysand's search for a towel. And then the door creaked open.

She didn't know what to do as he emerged. What Feyre's face told, she had no idea. But when her eyes met his, her body went loose all over again.

Rhysand's skin was covered in beads of water. His hair was disheveled; face flushed. But when he saw her, he did not seemed shocked.

"Oh, I didn't know you were up," he said lightly. Apparently had had known she had taken his bed after all as he glanced over, "Did you get your full 16 hours?" he teased.

Feyre didn't say a word.

When it was clear she wasn't going to answer, he nodded to the now tangled sheets.

"I figured you wouldn't mind me showering while you slept. Since you stole my bed." He shot her a good-natured grin.

But she could do nothing but re-hear those sounds.

Gods, it was if they were ingrained into her skull. It would have been erotic to hear Rhysand doing that anywhere….but only after she had been participating in the act.

Who knew something could be more agonizing than to be interrupted?

Rhysand continued his routine, opening a door built into the wall. A closet then. "So, uh, how long have you been sleep walking?" he asked. Feyre pondered answering or not.

"I always do it when I use too much of my magic," Feyre said distantly, unable to erase her arousal. Rhysand remained upbeat; as if nothing had happened.

"I figured as much," he called from the closet, "You'll be happy to know that every refugee now has a home since you were last awake." He emerged with an easy smirk.

But her eyes hung lower. He wore a deep blue tunic and trousers. But even from the distance, Feyre saw the water droplets that clung to his throat; his lips.

Damn him and water. He had to know it was a weakness of hers?

"When did you finally wake up?" He was making small talk. She could see it in his eyes; the lingering embarrassment he was trying to mask.

No doubt, Rhysand suspected what both of them already knew. That Feyre had heard everything.

So why pretend?

"I woke up when I heard the water turn on." Feyre watched as his pleasant features changed.

His face was wary, "Really?" the answer was careful; but a bit taunting as her gaze flicked to his chest.

And Feyre saw how it was moving a bit too rapidly.

So she had her answer.

"Yes," Feyre stood, and Rhysand didn't mask his stare at her near-naked body. But he did not move.

"I apologize," he lowered his head minutely, "I didn't mean for you to hear…that."

Feyre shrugged as she continued her slow stalk. If Rhysand sensed the siren beneath it all, he didn't give the inclination.

He only remained on the far side of the room. Perhaps afraid if he moved, then the atmosphere would vanish.

"I can't say I blame you," Feyre angled her head like a cat as her mind flashed to their first encounter. She trailed her hand down her front, and Rhysand followed it's path.

"Feyre," he warned when she finally closed the distance. She only gave him a quirk of her brow.

"Yes, you said my name a few times already."

His eyes hovered towards obsidian in the candlelight, "So you don't disapprove?"

She smiled before unhooking the clasp of her brassiere. It fell to the ground a moment later with a whisper. Rhysand drank in her breasts like the mere sight was sustenance.

"No, I don't." she said. Deafening desire lit his face at her words, and Feyre recognized that very look.

That first night she was sent to his rooms, Rhysand had been battling himself. He had only refused Feyre because he knew her ulterior motive.

 _Not like this._ His past words hovered in her memory.

But now things were different.

Now Feyre saw such an undiluted need as theirs could not be tamed. Not even by the likes of her.

And damn her if she wasn't going to indulge one last time.

"Tell me what you were imagining in there," she ordered suddenly. Rhysand's eyes dropped to her lips from her eyes. Then to her chest. And he visibly shifted under his trousers.

"I was picturing you."

Feyre felt more wetness pool between her legs. But she went on,

"What exactly?"

Rhysand didn't answer, so Feyre finally touched him. His skin shuddered as she trailed a finger along that slit in his tunic. But he remained silent.

"I want to hear what I was doing in this fantasy," she said. Rhysand swallowed thickly.

"I can't tell you that." He only groaned when her nail dug into his skin

"Why not?"

He caught her hand as it almost drew blood. But she could tell it excited him all the same, "I once told you there was no going back," he said a bit firmer, "You need to tell me you understand."

Feyre pretended to contemplate the order. Why Rhysand wanted her to verbally accept him; to hear she had changed her mind about their relationship, she knew not.

Because her siren wanted something far different.

"I think not. You don't get to make demands," Feyre hoped the words would make his leash snap. And his jaw feathered.

"Fine," he conceded, "You were—tasting me again." He seemed uncharacteristically embarrassed to admit it, phrasing his words in the best way. But Feyre's core heated all the same.

"Was I now?" she flicked open the buttons of his tunic, revealing the muscles that clenched underneath. "Tell me, do you not wish for it to happen again?"

His eyes flared, "I must admit, that's not all I wish for."

"Oh, do tell." Feyre flattened her palm over her chest. And she saw herself in his eyes. She was her siren now, and he knew what he had awoken.

Rhysand's only grinned. "I was tasting you too, Feyre." The velvet of his voice coated each syllable of her name as he drew closer.

"I was picturing me between your legs," his voice was pure wickedness, "Trying my best to imagine how you would cry for more. How you would taste." He bent to her ear for the final reveal, "What it would feel to be inside you."

All playfulness left Feyre's face as she took in his words.

And if it wasn't for the siren's power coursing through her veins, Feyre's knees would have given out.

"Do you wish to help me make fantasy flesh?" Rhysand withdrew with a smirk; effectively flipping Feyre's entire taunting on its head. Now all she wanted was him.

"Yes," she barely murmured. But Feyre was bound speechless as Rhysand knelt before her.

And the care in his violet eyes as he grasped Feyre's legs; leveling to what lie between them, it was like he was there to worship her.

"This is the last time," Feyre said. Rhysand's hands skittered along the tops of her thighs as he measured her words.

"Whether you choose to believe that or not, I knew you were listening, Feyre."

Her chest caught.

"The entire time," he revealed with sickening pride. And the siren inside of Feyre erupted. "And I knew you'd be drenched from it."

She looked down in shock. Feyre's siren sunk from the brazen arrogance in his gaze alone. What was left was her own anger as Rhysand clutched her backside.

"Why." Was all she said. He smiled.

"You're not the only one who can seduce," he said, "And I wanted to fulfill a fantasy of mine. One that you stopped it before it could come pass."

She gasped when his knuckle grazed her lace covered core. But she gritted her teeth all the same.

"What fantasy?"

"I wanted to catch you, Feyre." he finished. And she growled to know he had toyed with her so.

"You bastard." Her answer was filled with white hot rage. For Rhysand to manipulate her siren so maliciously made her beyond furious. But also…

Beyond turned on.

Rhysand only let out a rich laugh when he felt the evidence rush between her legs. "I think we can both agree, that these need to come off."

Feyre nodded as hooked his thumbs in her undergarment. And she teetered as he slipped them from her legs. But he only widened her to him.

"Spectacular," he murmured. She dampened further. "Is this from hearing me?" His face was filled with hunger. And Feyre did nothing but groan as he dragged a finger between her wetness.

"Yes," She didn't bother refusing anymore. The words that came next, had no chance of stopping, "I was touching myself before I even heard you."

Rhysand paused at that; a low snarl slipping out, "Care to share what you were thinking of, Feyre darling?"

She gasped when he pressed his thumb into her entrance. But he still waited for her answer. "You. I was thinking of you."

"And what, pray tell, was I doing?" He blew soft air on her heated flesh, and Feyre had to grab his shoulder for support.

"You were licking me," she whimpered as his fingers kept their agonizing pace.

He placed a gentle kiss on her inner thigh. "Licking you, where?"

Feyre's head lolled backwards. And suddenly she didn't want to play his game any longer.

"Here," she said; digging into his still-damp hair. Feyre wanted to bring his mouth closer. Rhysand only resisted her pull.

"I'm afraid you will have to say it," he purred. Feyre paused.

He only hitched one knee over his shoulder. She yelped when he dragged his tongue along her aching core. But he pulled back a moment later.

"You know what I want to hear, Feyre darling."

Her other leg threatened to buckle from the anticipation. She could feel his nose rub her center as she gritted her teeth.

"Fine, you were licking my pussy!" she all but shouted. Rhysand smiled.

And Feyre had no time to prepare before he delved between her legs.

Her hips gave out from the ferocity, but he only took her weight into his arms. She moaned as he held her to his face.

Feyre wrapped her fingers through his wet hair; reveling in the new access this granted him.

And Rhysand seemed more than eager for more. He lapped at Feyre with abandon. With each pass of his tongue, she cried out.

Just as Feyre was about to suggest moving to the bed, Rhysand stood.

She shrieked from the sudden movement. And when Feyre thought she was about to fall from his shoulders, Rhysand swung her into his arms.

"Show off," she grumbled as he held her easily.

He only shot her a wink, "Not yet."

He laid her on the bed with painstaking care. Feyre was left in a daze from the look in his eyes: the level of want yet reverence was one she couldn't understand.

But she had no time to memorize it before he was tasting her again. And Feyre shook when he took that tiny bundle of nerves into his mouth.

"Oh Gods." Feyre's knees once more rested on his broad shoulders. His arms wrapped each thigh to hold her open for him.

"I really don't appreciate you speaking of them now," he said.

She sat up with a stern glare.

"I will say what I damn well please."

He growled. "And I say, I want only one name falling from those pretty lips." He teased a finger along her entrance, and her body jolted. "Tell me what name that name is, Feyre."

She knew she had no choice to play along if she wished for release. So Feyre swallowed pride and said,

"Rhysand."

"Hmmm," he looked to what lay in front of him before slowly inserting a second. Feyre gasped. "That doesn't sound very convincing."

She only moaned when he curled those fingers. And Feyre had to begrudgingly admit that his teasing was somehow adding to the pleasure of it all.

But that didn't mean she wanted to concede. So Feyre wove her grip tighter in his hair and angled Rhysand's face to her.

"You'll hear your name when you make me scream it," she said. And he smiled.

Rhysand dove between her thighs without another hesitation; giving Feyre everything he could give.

And as his fingers moved in accordance to his tongue, her muscles started to tremble.

"Rhys," Feyre sighed as he increased pace. And when he pulled that tiny bundle of nerves into his mouth, her vision sparked with stars.

Feyre was cut off in her cry when he curled that wicked finger again, "I'm going to come."

He stopped to gaze up at her, "I don't think I've had my fill yet."

"Should I finish myself then?" Feyre shot right back. Rhysand gave her a knee-quaking stare. And the look in his eyes: it was full of possession as he showed her his teeth.

"Not a chance," he purred before adding a third digit; filling Feyre in the most delicious way. And her heart cracked to know what it would feel to have all of Rhysand….

It was that final thought; mixed with the image of his violet eyes gazing up at her was what caused her climax to rush through her.

She screamed as it engulfed her in great crashing waves. Rhysand's locks tickled her skin as his hot tongue prolonged each crest of pleasure.

Only when she was left limp, her body relaxed after the rush of her orgasm, did he withdraw.

Feyre clutched her chest to will her breathing return to normal. Her heart was still thundering when she glanced down to find Rhysand kneeling.

"Do you wish to repeat any other requests?" he smirked at her widened eyes, "A crown perhaps?"

Feyre narrowed her eyes at his blatant teasing. But she was quick to change the subject of her embarrassment as she pointed her eyes to his own arousal.

"I could think of other things I want at the moment," Feyre offered. She was pleased when Rhysand went speechless. But it was replaced by his easy grin.

"As tempting as that offer is," he said, "I'm afraid it will have to wait for later."

He rose to suck any remaining taste of her from his fingers. But Feyre was too busy realizing what he had just promised.

Later.

He wanted a later.

And this time as her blush reached her entire body, Rhysand did not miss how far it spread.

He only let out a strangled growl as he wiped his face, "I thank you Feyre darling, for making another fantasy of mine flesh," He licked his lips to make his point.

And Feyre knew even if she had an eternity with nothing but him and that smirking mouth, she would never have enough.

But before she could say as much, Rhysand scooped her up into her arms, sheet and all, and carried her into the next bedroom.

"I could have walked," she grumbled.

"I know. But I like the feel of you in my arms." He answered simply; laying Feyre down with a softness she wished to hang onto.

"Your sheets are better than mine," she gave a mock pout. Rhysand chuckled as he quickly covered her with the heavy bedspread. But it did not smell of him.

"I will ask them to be changed to ones of better quality," he said, "But until then, you need some rest. I can still see the circles beneath your eyes, and we have our first training session tomorrow."

He strode over to dampen the lamp. And Feyre felt as if she was a child being tucked in.

Then it dawned on her, how no one had ever taken care of her in such a manner.

She was always the one to make sure her sisters had everything. Feyre even had to appease the King just to make sure he remained sane enough to rule.

Now here was Rhysand, washing that all away. And she didn't want him to leave.

"Is this something I should be looking forward to?" Feyre called.

Rhysand turned with a smile. But her core heated to see his arousal still evident beneath his trousers.

It was so easy to lose herself in the fantasy of a different life with Rhysand, but she did well to remember she could never have it. Not truly.

War was impending, and she had an important part to play. But that part did not include becoming a High Lady of the Night Court.

"I suppose you can," Rhysand said, "You will find tomorrow more mentally draining than anything. But it will lessen with time." His face was careful as he asked the question, "That is of course, if you mean to stay a while longer."

Feyre bit her lip, but the hesitation was answer enough.

"Then I guess I can only say thank you for your help yesterday," he said, "I do not take any of your time here for granted."

But Feyre saw the grimness fill his eyes. And she couldn't answer before he left swiftly; closing the door a bit too gently.

And Feyre suddenly felt herself be pushed back to where she had started.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The next day Feyre dressed for her training in a daze. The whole time wondering how she would be able to leave this place after what she had learned.

Not only would her relationship with the King be changed.

But Feyre was changed.

She was waiting eagerly for her sisters' returning letter; for them to tell her of the King's mood once he realized that she was still in the Prince's care. But it had not come.

Needless to say, Feyre was eager to hear word.

But her work with the refugees would keep her busy, that Feyre knew. If not Rhysand's determination to teach her the other sides of her magic.

But as she rounded the corner in search of the throne room, she was met with Cassian.

"Feyre!" he gave a broad grin, "Rhysand told me you are to join in training today."

"How is it that you know it's always me?" She looked at her hands and saw cream flesh that was not her own. Another mask she had put on just after dressing.

She wore only a brown tunic and pants she had seen Amren handing out to the refugees. And she figured this was the perfect way to blend in.

But the pirate only surveyed her with smiling eyes.

"Rhysand's magic is much like yours. And he has taught us to shield our minds to it. So even if I see the persona you've put on, I can still sense you underneath it."

Feyre eyes widened. "Do all his people know it's me?"

"Not at all. It takes years upon year of practice just to attempt what I and the others can. Rest assured your secret is still safe with us."

Feyre let out a long breath. It was one thing to know Rhysand could see her for who she was, but if everyone else could….

It would have left her vulnerable.

"So, would you like to join Azriel and I while Rhys finishes his impromptu business?" Cassian asked, "You could be amongst your people. While learning some defense methods at the same time."

"I thought Rhysand wanted to train with magic today."

"Well, how about avoiding that by having fun with us instead?" Cassian waggled his eye brows, and Feyre had to admit, the offer sounded more than tempting.

But if she was to be in the same yard as the northern men, no matter training personally with the Prince's two war commanders, people would start wonder who Feyre was.

And was she ready to let loose her anonymity just yet?

"That sounds lovely," Feyre answered, "But surely Rhysand won't appreciate me training amongst other men."

"Don't tell Amren that," Cassian rubbed the back of his neck, "She'll get angry you ever thought so low of us. She and Mor join us every other day. But if you prefer to spend your time separate. We won't force it."

"No, I want to," Feyre said eagerly, excited to know that in Velaris, women were treated equally to their male counterpart.

And she would do anything to avoid facing the other side of her magic that Rhysand wanted so badly to uncover.

"But are my tunic and pants good enough?" she glanced down "I'm afraid I don't have as fine fighting leathers as you,"

The pirate only offered Feyre his arm, "No need. I'm sure you'll make quite the entrance either way."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Indeed, as they entered the training grounds, it felt as every eye on the platform fell on Feyre. But It was not because she was a woman; but an outsider.

As every man greeted Cassian with either a nod or an outright salute, they eyed her with wariness.

But she was not introduced. Feyre didn't know if the choice was something calculated by Cassian or a simple oversight, but she did not press it.

The soldiers parted as Cassian led them to a rather secluded area of the field. But as they passed, Feyre guessed the number of northerners that stood amongst them.

At least a quarter of the group were white faces.

A sudden lump lodged itself in her throat.

"Do these men choose to be here?" Feyre asked Cassian as they reached the place they would train. He nodded.

"All the northerners you see here had been offered a choice between service in our army, and the profession they had in their continent. All the men here chose to fight for the Night Court."

Feyre gulped as she turned back to the field of men. They were now traitors to the King.

But she only saw men that were trying to give their families a better life.

"Cassian, I can't believe you bullied Feyre to join us," a voice suddenly muttered. Feyre turned to see Azriel had appeared at the edge of the yard.

Spy master, indeed.

"I forced no one," Cassian huffed that Azriel would even joke about such a thing, "I only suggested to Feyre she learn a few things to defend herself."

Azriel nodded at that, "Then you came to the right place."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Cassian gave Feyre into the spy-master's capable hands as the captain took his shift as over-seer to the rest of the men.

They told Feyre that Rhysand was still seeing to his other duties, and would join later.

She was too busy to worry about the fact as Azriel explained what they would start for their training.  
And the more Feyre watched him give examples of each defense position; or which way she should angle her body in case of attack, she saw the raw intelligence in his fighting style.

The spy-master was no doubt worthy of the title; his lean body fitted with similar armor to Cassian's.

But unlike the blunt pirate, Azriel let off a different sort of strength. A sort of fluid ease hung on everything he did. And it left Feyre feeling utterly lacking.

"Let's start simple," Azriel finally said, coming closer. Feyre only looked to the rest of the men that were starting anywhere but simple.

They were swinging and dodging swords like it was nothing. And she couldn't help but wonder if she would ever get to that point.

"Ignore them, Feyre," Azriel caught her gaze, "Those men have years of experience. You do not. But that is nothing to be ashamed of."

She nodded.

"Now, let's begin with a proper stance," he did so, "Widen your legs like this, bend your knees slightly. Yes good." He praised as she mirrored his movements.

Feyre swallowed as he analyzing her body in a way a commander analyzed war strategy.

"First things first," he said, "You may be at a disadvantage because of your smaller size, but that also means you will most likely be quicker than your attacker. And you can use that to your advantage."

"Alright," Feyre gulped as Azriel brought his arms in with smooth grace. And she couldn't help but wonder what Rhysand would fare in opposition to his clever spy-master.

"Bring your arms just above level with your chest like so," Azriel braced his arms upright, as his hands clenched into fists. And nodded for Feyre to do the same, "That way you can block the same second you can deliver a blow."

"Okay," Feyre mimicked his movements, doing her best to keep her legs apart and slightly bent while pulling in her elbows.

"Good, Feyre." Azriel nodded as he came to look at her progress from the front. Her chest lightened.

"Now, the first I will show you maneuver will be—"

That was when a hush went over the platform, and all men ceased what they were doing.

She looked to see what all the fuss was about. And peering over the outcropping of bushes that separated her from the rest, Feyre quickly saw the reason everyone had gone silent.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N I haven't been able to thank you guys for reading and reviewing. Just know that I appreciate every single bit of feedback. Most will catch the similarity to A Court of Mist and Fury towards the end. Hope you like it. Enjoy :)**

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"Its only Rhys," Azriel turned with an exasperated sigh. But Feyre couldn't tear her eyes away, "He usually joins work-outs in the afternoon. But these northerners must be curious to see the infamous Prince of the Night Court for themselves."

"I suppose they want to see if he lives up to the reputation."

Azriel huffed at her words. But Feyre herself knew the feeling.

Her entire time with Rhys, she had been slowly piecing together the myth and the man.

But there he was: the southern Prince rumored not only committed to his people, skillful in battle and well-versed in public relations.

But above all, respecting his men that fought for such.

So even if Azriel thought the northerner's interest of Rhys was foolish, Feyre could not quench her same curiosity; no matter how much time she spent with him.

Rhysand continued to make his way across the field; seemingly ignorant to everyone's gaze. Including Feyre's.

Each step he took was frim and purposeful. She swore the earth itself went quiet in recognition. Either from his magic, or the utter stillness of each warrior he passed.

But Azriel only snapped her from the trance a moment later,

"Rhys will join us after he meets the new men," he said, "Cassian already told him that you were learning some self-defense today. So he can't be too mad you ditched his magic lessons."

Feyre turned with shock. She didn't know Azriel was capable of a joke.

"I ditched nothing," she returned to the spy-master's rare smile, "Cassian invited me, and who am I to refuse a pirate?"

Azriel merely nodded, but she saw in those dark eyes that he knew better.

Feyre merely threw herself into learning. She practiced which part of her feet to balance weight; how to anticipate attack.

Yet her attention kept slipping.

Feyre couldn't help but peer past Azriel; catching a glimpse of Rhysand's back. He was still weaving amongst the ranks; greeting each northerner and southerner alike.

And Feyre saw another part of Rhys that was different than all the rest.

He was no longer the commanding, stern Prince she had once seen; or the charming, easy going Rhys she had come to know.

For even if he hadn't the slender-fitting armor on, no one would mistake the lethal power residing underneath.

It was ebbing off of him in waves. And unlike what Feyre had seen before of Rhysand's magic, this power bore no ill feeling. But sheer utter destruction.

But eventually, she had to stop staring. Well, actually Feyre didn't have a choice as Rhysand left out of her sight.

"Now," Azriel fell into stance, "Let's practice in case your attacker comes from the front."

Feyre's legs and arms felt sluggish no matter how many time she practiced. But she steeled herself all the same.

"You must always go for the most sensitive zones first," the spymaster said, pointing to the such areas as Feyre did her best to absorb the information. Some of it was common knowledge, some not.

And when Azriel was done with his lecture he clapped his hands suddenly. Feyre merely blinked as he shifted rapidly from side to side.

"Okay Feyre, are you ready?" he said, "I'm going to come at you, and I want you to use any of the maneuvers I taught you."

"What?" Her eyes widened; finally absorbing what Azriel meant. He only motioned for her to move forward.

"Now when I come at you, deflect me in one of the ways you think is best."

She shook her head, "I can't hit you, Azriel."

"Nonsense. Unless it's only Rhysand you prefer to hit."

She blushed. Apparently, Cassian had shared how Feyre had repeatedly slapped Rhysand on their voyage to the southern court.

"Teasing or no," she gritted. "That doesn't mean I'm going to hit you."

"Alright, if you will not, I bet Rhysand would be more than happy to persuade you." Azriel turned, cupping his hand around his mouth as he started to shout, "Hey, Rhys—"

" _Okay!"_ Feyre cried before replying softer, "You win."

The spymaster revealed a rare smile.

Feyre only took in a deep breath as she went into her stance. Azriel did the same, before quirking a brow, "Are you ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be."

He nodded.

And then he rushed her.

Feyre blinked at Azriel's speed, before she remembered what he had told her. Aim for the nose or eyes, and use the hardest part of her body.

So before Feyre knew was she was doing, she was angling out her elbow and thrusting it into Azriel's chest. But instead of hitting her target, she aimed too high.

And hit Azriel directly in his teeth.

The blow was loud as it shook all the way up her arm. Azriel didn't even teeter as he held his mouth.

But blood was pouring out.

"Holy heavens!" Feyre exclaimed, coming over to try and inspect the damage.

"I'm alright, Feyre," Azriel shook her off. But she ignored him; ripping the hem of her tunic to try to absorb the blood that was now running down his chin. Thankfully, he took it.

"I feel terrible," Feyre gushed with fluttering hands, "I was aiming for your chest."

"No, you did well," Azriel withdrew. The bleeding had thankfully subsided. But he scrunched his face with a wince. "I underestimated your strength. That was my mistake."

"I feel horrid."

"Don't." Those dark eyes met hers, and she saw the real pride there, "That goes to show that you have the capacity. All you need is the practice."

"Thank you, but I insist on accompanying you to the infirmary."

"I can go on my own. I'll send Cassian over," Azriel said, "You need to keep practicing."

"Let me get him—" Feyre started. But Azriel merely put a gentle hand on her shoulder before saying,

"Trust me when I say I've endured much worse than this, Feyre."

She nodded to the reminder. And she was struck with the realization of Azriel's history. She didn't know how he came into Rhysand's court. But he must have been a force of nature to do so.

So not before watching Azriel disappear in the sea of men, did Feyre warily turn to practice all he had taught her.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Feyre did as Azriel said. Although at first, she felt silly dodging and swinging her arms at nothing but air, eventually she worked up her courage. Even managing to break a bit of a sweat.

Then a familiar voice interrupted.

"I'm afraid Cassian couldn't help today, but I hope to be the next best thing."

Feyre stopped dead. She felt a tremor sweep across her back. And she didn't have to turn to know who stood behind her.

"That look suits you." Rhys pointed his gaze to the rip of her tunic as Feyre faced him. But she faltered at how much Rhysand's armor fit him impeccably.

She managed to raise her chin to his stare. "I had to help with the bleeding somehow."

Rhys' shoulders seemed broadened from the black plates of his armor; each panel of his abdomen tapering to his slim waist. The plated leather groaned with the shift of his stance.

"You made my spymaster bleed?" was all he asked.

Feyre grimaced at the memory, "I may have knocked out some teeth."

Rhys gave a dark chuckle at that, "Remind me never to piss you off."

"Yet you keep sneaking up on me." Feyre raised her chin. But held her breath a second later when he drew closer.

And gods curse her, he smelled of sweat and sea breeze. And she couldn't help but lick her lips as he she saw the beads of moisture gather at his brow.

"Perhaps you're right," he said, "But now I'm here. So we can work on your magical defenses."

Her brows lowered.

"Only a bit of experimenting," he clarified when Feyre wavered.

"How do you know you won't end up like Azriel if something goes wrong?"

"Broken teeth or no, I will help you any way you allow me," Rhysand answered a bit too seriously.

"Alright then," Feyre took a step back to forced her body into stance; forcing more conviction than she had, "I would be an idiot to say no to a seasoned warrior like yourself."

Rhysand brow's rose. "What makes you think I'm seasoned in war?"

Her stomach dropped at the suddenly hardness in his voice, "I just assumed."

"You assumed wrong. I learned everything from piracy and living in the streets. I hope never to use any of those skills for war. I'm teaching you them now in order for you know yourself better."

Feyre only nodded; seeming to have struck a core with him.

She merely fell into her stance a moment later. Feyre even went as far as to bring her hands up to her face in the blocking position.

Rhys nodded, "Hold your arms higher."

Feyre ground her teeth, but she still braced like he said. And before she knew what was happening, Rhysand pushed her hands like it was nothing.

"You can't go through the motions like your siren does." He hauled her hands back up, and Feyre let him place them where he wanted, "Try to act with more strength."

Feyre swallowed as she did what he said. And she tried to remain stoic as Rhysand circled her with narrowed eyes.

"Better."

Feyre breathed her sigh of relief; not knowing where this desire to please him came from.

"Now hit me."

Feyre balked as she turned. "Hit you?"

"I want you to know what it's like to be the one attacking," Rhys motioned for her to come forward, "Come on. Give me your best shot."

"I can't," Feyre stood straight, "I already feel terrible for hurting Azriel."

"I'm not Azriel. And you seemed to have had no problem doing it before."

Feyre remembered the very instance. She was wrong to slap Rhysand for only trying to keep her safe. Yet he had taken each blow without question.

And now he was giving her permission to inflict more to help her grow confidence.

"I don't like this," she receded.

He straightened with a sigh. "You don't have to. You think I like everything my title requires me to do?"

Feyre slacked just thinking of all the things she hadn't wanted to do. She hadn't wanted to be on those streets selling her body. She didn't want to serve an evil King.

And she didn't want to rely on her siren any longer.

So with final breath; she steeled her gaze onto her mark. Rhysand smiled darkly as if he sensed her very thoughts.

"Don't look where you're going to hit, first."

Feyre nodded. And without thinking, she tried to strike Rhysand in the chest. But he caught her fist before she could make contact.

"You gave yourself away."

She growled before wretched her hand away. Rhysand waited with an insufferable quirk of his brow.

So in one last attempt, Feyre scrounged up all her skills; remembering all Azriel had taught her.

And with all her energy, she feigned left before swinging back to catch Rhys unawares.

But somehow, he had anticipated it all. And before Feyre knew what had happening, she was in a hold of her own.

"That time, you doubted yourself," he murmured. His arms were wrapped around her shoulders. And it was an effort not to melt into his muscled chest.

But Feyre was still searing full of anger. She had so wanted to prove him wrong.

"I don't have your years of experience, you know" she said. But as always, she was useless without her magic.

"Then use another strength," Rhys said lower, "Take hold of my mind, Feyre. And _force_ me to let you go."

Feyre tensed at his words. He had planned this all along.

"My magic takes too much energy. I don't have enough," she all but whimpered.

For back home, she remembered most days her siren making her collapse from too much use. She barely had experience enough in reading minds to let her try. But Feyre was scared to find out what happened if she went too far.

"It's not like your siren," Rhysand's voice hushed along her thoughts, "This magic can't drain you if you don't let it."

Her stomach boiled to know he had let himself into her mind so easily. Perhaps that was how he had anticipated her moves earlier.

"That's exactly what I did." he replied. And Feyre could practically hear his grin from behind her.

"I don't know how," Feyre heaved as she tried to break from his brace. But it was clear that Rhysand was not going to allow her the easy way out. She would have to earn it.

"Just try, Feyre," he said; either aloud or in her head; she couldn't tell anymore.

She only slumped against him; wanting to give into her siren like Feyre always did when something was too hard.

It was just so much easier to have that part of her magic do all the work. She never had to the thinking. But it also came with a price.

Rhysand remained.

So she dug into that other side of her power. It was dark and cold. But it was waiting for her.

She pictured it like a rushing wave breaking down barriers as she pushed it outward.

And soon enough, she felt the arms around her alleviate. But it did not stop there.

Feyre felt that invisible wave wash over every inch of the field. And within it, she found the mind of every man within a mile radius.

Some were so open that she knew she could take them without a single thought. And it terrified her to know it.

Other minds were carefully hidden, perhaps southerners that were taught to shield against her and Rhysand's magic.

But there was only a single mind that was sealed like a steel trap. More unbreakable than she ever imagined.

Even as this imaginary wave sought to flood between the invisible cracks, each time it was met with a Rhysand's cold stone barrier.

Feyre had no choice but to pause and think. If the outright force of her magic couldn't work, she wondered if she could find other weaknesses.

With one deep breath, Feyre imagined invisible fingers dragging along that barrier; hoping that Rhysand would surrender in that way.

Perhaps if Feyre couldn't open the door outright, she could seduce Rhys to giving her the key.

And sure enough, she felt his mind tremble in response to her touch. So she pressed harder, this time squeezing in an imaginary hand between the split she found there.

And before she knew what was happening, Feyre was tumbling into Rhysand's mind.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _He was so hungry. So unbelievably hungry that he wondered if it possible for a stomach to cave in on itself._

 _But no. It had not. Instead; he was left to rot on this sorry northern street._

 _Ever since he had landed there last year, after spending the little coin he had left on food, Rhysand had not eaten a hearty meal; nor slept under a warm roof in two months._

 _Perhaps it had been a mistake to come. For he had promised himself long ago that he would let it be. For his sake, and for hers._

 _But he couldn't help himself._

 _Even from across continents, her magic called to him in the worst way. That call had inspired both dreams and nightmares alike._

 _And it always had the same outcome._

 _Rhysand had been searching for so many ages he had forgotten what she even looked like. But the instinct to find her could not be deafened so easily._

 _So Rhysand followed the whispers. And it led him to the north. The song of her magic led him the rest of the way._

 _And as soon as Rhysand reached that filthy corner of the northern capitol. He knew instinctively._

 _She was here._

 _He had seen glimpses of her the past days. She always returned to a worn-down shack set between to taverns._

 _When she wasn't inside, she was out on the street or in the ally._

 _She was a courtesan._

 _Rhysand wasn't shocked. He knew her to use her magic to attract customers of higher stature. And after days of using what strength he had left, he still ached to see her._

 _And then, as if the Gods were parting the heavens themselves: through the busy crowd, Rhysand saw a single figure appear across the way._

 _She emerged like an angel. A wealthy man was at her side, as he slipped her a gold coin._

 _Rhysand's eyes widened, not to the act, but to her face._

 _He had lost count of the years it had been. How many times he had drank himself into a stupor just to forget her series of features._

 _But there she was. As same as ever._

 _People passing couldn't ignore her either. To the untrained eye, she was barely past her bodily changes. Yet breathtakingly beautiful._

 _Maybe too beautiful._

 _But Rhysand knew what lay beneath. He was the only one who could._

 _And despite his hunger, or the emptiness in his pocket; one need still towered over the rest._

 _Rhysand wanted to be with her._

 _But no matter how he dreamed, he was doomed to do nothing but watch. She would live life after life without him; and he would remain._

 _He had no choice but to be a shadow in her life. He would intervene when he could. But she could not know._

 _Not if they wanted to all start over again._

 _But even if he_ could _intervene, Rhysand would not condemn her to his life of hatred._

 _Yet he could not leave that corner. Even if she remained ignorant that he existed, Rhysand could not walk away._

 _It was then that he heard someone's stern voice. Rhysand dimly looked up to see a red-faced man heading straight toward him._

" _Filthy beggar," the nobleman shouted, "Why don't you find work like the rest of us?"_

 _Rhysand didn't bother answering. It never mattered what he said. Everyone despised him no matter what._

 _It was a curse, that was all Rhysand remembered. But the origins of such, he had long forgotten._

 _The nobleman continued to rant as he kicked the coin bowl from Rhysand's hands._

 _And he let it happen; too weak to even stand._

" _Are you a mute, you southern scum? Did the Gods cut out your tongue for your sins?"_

 _That made him finally look up. But Rhys only saw the hatred in the man's eyes._

 _And then everything halted. There was movement across the street._

 _It was her._

 _She was watching the encounter with wide eyes. And as pathetic as it was, Rhysand's heart lifted to know she had noticed._

 _Finally._

" _Can you not speak to defend yourself?" the nobleman pulled Rhysand's to his feet; and he smelled the alcohol on his breath, "That's because you know it's true, you worthless piece of dirt!"_

 _The nobleman raised his hand to strike, and as Rhysand braced for the blow, too tired to care._

 _But he didn't have to._

 _Because someone's hand stopped it before Rhysand was struck._

" _What the—?" The nobleman paused._

" _That is quite unnecessary," a heavenly voice said._

 _And Rhysand knew who exactly had saved him. He slowly looked over to find a pair of storm gray eyes._

 _And as soon as he saw them, he was forced to relive lifetimes of seeing that gaze over and over._

 _Feyre._

" _What are you playing at, girl?" The nobleman scolded her half-heartedly, for his attention quickly found her breasts. She merely cocked her head with a smile._

" _Sir, I only mean to ask why you don't put your hands to better use?" she said softer. And Rhysand's skin rose to hear that voice again._

 _It was same as ever._

 _And he watched the shimmering of her magic as her form changed to this man's fantasy. The nobleman had no idea it was even happening as his face turned dazed._

 _Rhysand only balked._

 _To know she had already mastered her siren so skillfully made his stomach want to retch._

 _She had to suffer too much for his accord. And Rhysand had seen enough._

" _Do you care to show me just what a man like you can do?" Her voice fell into roughness. Rhysand clenched his teeth as he gathered all remaining strength._

" _That sounds rather…enticing." The nobleman answered._

 _Rhysand made a move to tell the man just exactly where he could put his hands. But as he did, Feyre shook her head._

 _Then behind her back, she revealed a velvet coin purse; pick pocketed from the nobleman while he was too busy gawking._

 _And in one instant, it was in Feyre's slender hand, and in another moment, she was tossing it to Rhysand._

 _He blinked at the weight before looking back to her. Only to watch her back as she led her new customer further and further away._

 _And she disappeared in the crowd forever. Never to be seen by Rhysand again._

 _XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX_

Feyre gasped as she jolted from the vision.

A pair of arms were still around her; arms of a man she had unknowingly saved.

They retracted from her the next moment.

"What was that?" Feyre beheld Rhysand's grim face. He looked as shocked as she.

"You weren't supposed to see that," he murmured; perhaps stunned that she had dug so far into his mind.

"Rhys, have we met before?" Feyre was trying to shake the imagine of herself. But seeing her face through his eyes was unsettling to say the least. "Rhys?" she pressed when he remained silent.

But he was staring at her like he himself didn't know.

She tried to hold on to that vision; to see if Feyre remembered it. But it flitted away the next moment.

"Rhysand!" Another voice called. Both he and Feyre spun to find Mor's anxious face.

"What is it?" it was Feyre who asked; because the man across her looked as though he had seen a ghost.

"There's a riot in the palace courtyard," Mor answered. That was enough to snap Rhys from his trance. "The refugees know Feyre is here. And they want her to be turned over to them. They demand her blood."

Rhysand blinked twice before cursing colorfully.

But Feyre was utterly frozen.

But Rhysand already had his sword drawn as he asked Mor, "You know where to go?"

The Princess nodded as she gently took her arm.

"Wait? What's going on!" Feyre looked over her shoulder to Rhys. But he was already beyond the field, heading into the castle.

Mor only pulled Feyre closer. "You cannot help this time. Leave it to Rhys." She led them deeper into the surrounding gardens.

"Where are we going?" Feyre's head whipped backwards, but no one was following them.

"Somewhere safe," Mor murmured. They stepped out of the series of thick shrubs only to stop at an iron gate. There, two guards bowed as Feyre and Mor passed.

And suddenly, there was no longer grass beneath Feyre's feet, but neat cobble stone. Mor kept her tight hold as they weaved a series of back allies, moving further and further from the palace gardens into the lower city.

Feyre glanced from the darkness to find the main street merely a block away. People were rushing towards the palace entrance.

But she and the princess kept to the shadows.

And then Mor suddenly stopped.

Feyre looked up to find the back of a brick building. It bore no inviting storefront or colorful items. But a single door.

Feyre paused as Mor knocked on the rough wood. "What is this place?"

"This is where we stay until things get under control."

"Will everything be okay?"

"Don't worry. This isn't the first time trouble has been stirred. I dare say it won't be the last."

Feyre swallowed. But she was still rattled from what she had found in Rhysand's mind.

She couldn't remember any of the events she had seen. Maybe it was nothing but a dream that bore reality. But something about the emotions in the vision…they were all too real to be fantasy.

Feyre was brought from her musing as they heard someone unlocking steel and latch from the other side. And then the door swung open.

A plump woman beheld Feyre and Mor. Then back again.

"So the rumors are true then." Was all she said. Mor looked both ways down the alley before gently pushing Feyre inside.

"Indeed, they are, Alis. But that remains between us," Mor said, "Feyre, this is Alis. We can trust her."

Feyre gave a small smile. Alis only locked the door behind them. "Then I know why you're here," she said as she turned, "They want her, don't they? Those northern rogues. And after everything the Prince has done for them."

Feyre felt her tongue turn thick as Mor gave a strangled look, "Either way, the Prince is taking care of it. But Feyre must be kept safe," Was all Mor said.

The answer seemed to satiate Alis enough as she gave a huff. "I suppose you'll want some food," she said as she bustled off.

Mor thanked her as they sat on a rather worn couch. Feyre beheld the room before them. It was simple, yet quaint. It has a bookshelf, a small cot and chair to match. Otherwise, it was utterly bare.

"Where are we?"

Mor nodded to the opposite side of the room. "There's a business front that hides this as a safe house. Rhysand has it for days like today."

Feyre nodded, but there was so much she wanted to say. The fact that Rhysand suspected an uprising enough to take precaution.

Or that he was risking Gods knew what to stop it.

"I'm sorry," was all she murmured. Mor started to hush her but Feyre went on, "No, those people want me for a reason, Mor. I serve a man that forced them from their homes; taken their livelihoods."

"From their point of view, perhaps," Mor murmured, "But I know that isn't the whole story. You did what you had to do to survive. And they will come to see that."

Feyre's lips wobbled. She couldn't bear to think of her own people, rioting for her custody

All the while she hid away.

It was then Alis joined them. She carried a plate of torn bread, cheese and wine. She set it down with hands to her hips.

"Eat. It helps." She ordered Feyre more than Mor. She left them a moment later.

It was then that there was another knock at the door. Feyre's entire body seized.

But Mor was already unlocking it to reveal a rather out of breath Amren.

Feyre let out a sigh to see the woman rather than an angry hoard come for her life.

Mor just crossed her arms, "Well?"

Amren stepped in; giving the room a survey as she said, "It's over. The Prince snuffed it out with a few words. The King's spies who started it are now in chains."

Feyre had never felt more relief in her life.

"In that case," Mor started, "What do you two say to a night out? Feyre has yet to have a proper tour of Velaris, and I refuse to let a few northern spies keep us from living."

"That's actually a good idea," Amren nodded, "Rhysand is negotiating with the remaining northerners as we speak. Until that's over, its best to keep Feyre away."

They both turned to her at that. But Feyre wavered.

"I don't think we should," Feyre said. "I'm the reason those people are so angry. It's probably best to keep a low for a while."

It was Amren who spoke. "None of this was your fault. The King has plotted riots before to undermine the south. But it's failed like all his other schemes eventually will."

"Amren is right," Mor said, "Truly, you are one of us now. And you deserve a feel safe. Facing them will help."

Feyre's throat went suddenly thick as she looked between the women. She didn't know how to tell them what those simple words meant to her. That for once in her life, she deserved freedom and happiness.

And maybe even a home.

So all Feyre said was, "Where shall we go first?"

 _XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX_

As the three of them walked back to the palace, Feyre was content to take in the city sights as Mor chattered to the frowning Amren.

They had just finished their dinner by the ocean; eating there on Mor's suggestion. And Feyre couldn't remember dining on such beautiful or delicious food.

She was practically stuffed to the brim by the time the sun set over the water. And as they made the winding climb back to the palace, Feyre's attention was snagged by a single shop.

It had a white stone face with a broad glass door. The front itself was so small it was barely noticeable.

But Feyre had noticed.

Because in its one window, was the most breath-taking piece of art she had ever seen.

It was so mesmerizing that Feyre hadn't realized how close she stood to the glass until her breath coated it with fog.

"You can go in, you know," a voice called. And this new voice dragged along her very soul.

Feyre spun to find Rhysand smiling.

Mor and Amren nowhere in sight. Sneaks.

"How did you find us?" Feyre asked, but she was already surveying him with her eyes; trying to find any sign or injury or distress from the riot.

But he looked the same as ever.

"It was a bit too easy. I just followed Mor's chattering and the sound of Amren's groans."

Feyre pressed her lips together to stop from gushing her thanks. He continued to do too much for her.

"I'm glad you're safe." Was all she said.

He nodded, "I really came to tell you in person things are back to normal. I dare say it won't happen again."

She sucked in a breath; her reprieve of hearing such too palpable to be spoken. He merely gave her an easy smile as he tucked a hand into his pocket.

"Were you thinking of stopping in?"

Feyre blinked back into present; understanding he spoke of the store behind them.

"Do you know it?"

"I know the owner. Anything you fancy, you can put on his account."

"I couldn't." Feyre was never allowed to shop in her own capitol. Everything from dresses to jewels or furnishings were all bought for her; the King never letting Feyre out in public.

Realizing how pathetic it was, she suddenly felt the urge to buy the entire store.

"There's no harm in taking a look, is there? I'll wait so you can browse on your own."

Feyre bit her lip; looking to the piece that had made her stop in the first place.

It was clearly abstract with broad sweeping strokes. But there was something else conveyed in the image. She wanted to know it better.

"I will only take a minute," she said. Rhysand nodded as Feyre hustled in.

The bell dang as she entered. It was the only sound as she beheld the bright gallery. All the pieces were all done by the same artist, that she knew. But she was pulled to a particular one.

It was full of light. With its bright coloring and methodic brush strokes. Mixes of sun-bright yellows and foam-whites. Pale blues accented by striking turquois.

"You know, that one is the Prince's favorite."

Feyre turned to find a woman she knew too well, "Alis?"

The woman smiled, her hazel eyes brighter as she beheld Feyre for the second time that day. "I see you couldn't stay away. I don't blame you, this store always has a knack for pulling in the curious."

"I can see why," Feyre was enchanted by the painstaking care the artist took to weave such colors together. "What's the name of the artist? Are they from the Night Court?"

"Couldn't tell you. The artist wants to remain anonymous. But I believe the Prince knows them personally."

Feyre nodded, keeping the slice of information to ask Rhysand later.

"Do you paint yourself?" Alis asked.

"I used to." If only Feyre could reach this kind of mastery. It would likely take an eternity.

"Why did you stop?"

Feyre opened her mouth to answer, but paused. She didn't have a good excuse.

Maybe it had been because she was too tired. Feyre barely found enough time to eat and sleep among her work, let alone paint. She only managed to sketch once and a while.

"We have classes you can attend," Alis said, "Perhaps that will encourage you to start again."

"Perhaps," Feyre finally looked to the street where Rhysand still waited. Yet she couldn't bear to tear herself away just yet. "I will be back."

"I bet you will."

Feyre slowly backed towards the door, taking one last mental picture. Maybe after returning to the north, she would take her pay from the King and open a shop like this of her very own.

And just as she was leaving, she hit something hard. Feyre turned to see who she had ran into in her dazedness.

Only to find Rhysand.

"Find something worthwhile, Feyre darling?"

"I uh—"

"Welcome, your Highness," Alis greeted before Feyre could say anything else. Rhysand gave the woman a wide smile.

"It is lovely as always to see you, Alis," he said, "Have we had much business lately?"

Feyre's head spun between the exchange. Now realizing why Alis had not seemed shocked by his arrival. Or just why Rhysand sent Feyre here to wait out the riot.

This was his business.

Rhysand's hands remained on Feyre's shoulders throughout the conversation. A fact that Alis' eyes caught.

"A few walk-ins including young Feyre," Alis pointed her head to her, "We sold two works in the last month. Any chance you can convince your mysterious friend to get painting again?"

"I'll try my best," Rhysand chuckled; his attention falling back to Feyre, "So did you come in here to look? Or to add to the collection?"

"I could never compare to this level of skill."

"You never know. But if you think as much, let me buy you something." Rhys let go of her shoulders before walking over to the very same one that had caught her eyes.

"I'll leave you two alone. Shout if you need anything," Alis called, the brunt looking woman somehow sneakier than anyone Feyre had ever met.

Rhysand didn't even notice as he turned to Feyre.

"I came in because I remembered I owe you one last apology," he said. Feyre quirked a brow. "About earlier today. I hope what you saw on the training ground hasn't frightened you off. It was merely a recurring dream I've had."

Feyre blinked to know that vision was mere fantasy. But now there was the hidden meaning of such. "What do you think it means?"

He turned with a smirk, "Perhaps that we need to help each other."

Feyre huffed at his teasing.

"That aside," he went back to the paintings, "I do think you could create something like this. Bypass ever having to pay for it."

Feyre scoffed as she joined his side, "Never in a million years."

His eyes met hers, "Never say never, Feyre darling."

She brushed off the look with a smirk, "Either way, you said yourself I could charge anything I wanted to the owner's tab. And since I have an inkling to who he is, I don't feel buying the whole store."

Rhys finally laughed at that, full and booming as Feyre couldn't help warm from the sound alone.

"I suppose the he owes you for all you've endured," Rhys played along, gesturing to the wall, "Which ones?"

"Just one for now." She angled her eyes to what Rhysand stood in front of. He nodded thoughtfully.

"Interesting."

Feyre didn't ask what he meant. "Alis tells me you know the artist personally. Care to tell me what they wanted to capture with this collection?"

"Your guess is better than mine," he clasped his hands behind his back, "But if I had to say, I think she wanted to capture peace. Happiness even."

"So the artist is a she."

Rhysand shot her a sly smirk. "Don't tell me you're jealous."

She blinked. "No, it's just—I've never been drawn to works as much as these," Feyre turned to him "I would like to meet her."

"Maybe one day," he said, "Sadly, she is unable to right now. I hear she is doing some soul searching."

Feyre gave a curt nod. "Good for her."

"Now I know you're jealous."

"If you mean I'm envious of her talent, then you would be correct. It sounds like you two are close, though."

"We were," he answered quietly. And Feyre got the feeling Rhysand was holding two different conversations. But he was quick to add,

"But it's not like you and I, Feyre. Our connection can never be matched," he winked; that insufferable ego rearing its huge head again. Feyre rolled her eyes.

"I hope you are speaking of our connection of friendship," she corrected.

"What else?"

She smiled, happy to see him back to his old self, "Then as a sign of that friendship, I suppose you can buy me that painting."

Feyre nodded to the abstract beach scene; happy to think she would have a souvenir of the Night Court to take back with her.

"As you wish, Feyre darling," Rhysand bowed his head a bit too grandly, "In exchange, I would like to take you to another shop before we go. That's if you'd oblige."

"But Mor and Amren are waiting for me."

"We both know they left as soon as I arrived," he said with a devious wink, "At least Mor did. Amren is probably still scowling knowing that she was pulled into the scheme."

Feyre resisted from laughing at the image. And failed.

"So is that a yes?" He outstretched his hand in offering. Feyre hesitated, "Come on. Will you not allow a Prince to show off his kingdom?"

She bit her lip, knowing the less time she spent with Rhysand, the better. But she was helpless to have just one more moment in his company.

"Fine," she agreed, "But only for a little while."

"Your wish as always, is my command." He gestured for her to go first.

"Are we to visit another shop you own?" Feyre asked as Rhys fell into pace. Their hands brushed every other step. And it sent tingles up her arm.

"I don't know what you're insinuating."

Feyre gave him a long look.

"Fine, you're too clever for your own good," he chuckled. "Yes, I own the gallery. But that's information not well known. And I'd like to keep it that way."

Feyre nodded. "Can you at least tell me the artist's name? I would really like to know."

His eyes fell to her, "Sorry, Feyre darling, I made a promise not to reveal such. And I cannot break this one."

She scowled slightly, but remained silent as they continued on their stroll.

Dusk was falling; the sun slinking below the horizon. And Feyre had to admit, she would miss the Night Court once she left.

Feyre managed to tear her eyes away from the scene as she beheld Rhysand. He too, seemed to be soaking up the moment. But he turned to her a that next second.

"See something you like?" he repeated those words from their first carriage ride. Gods, it felt like an eternity ago.

"Not particularly."

"I would call you a terrible liar," he smirked, "But we're here." Rhysand motioned to the dark store front as Feyre paused. It had no sign; no hint to what lay inside.

"What is this place?"

"That would ruin the surprise," he said as he opened the door.

And as Feyre entered, her eyes struggled to adjust to the dim lighting. But as it did, her gaze widened to just where Rhysand had brought her.

Scraps of lace hung from every crevice. Silk and satin lay on display tables.

And Feyre's mouth popped open.

"Really?" she turned to find Rhysand grinning, "A lingerie shop? This is where you wanted to bring me? What, in hopes for a fashion show?"

Rhysand feigned offense, "Why do you always assume the worst of me? It's starting to hurt my feelings."

"Only because it's usually true."

He only nodded to the shop assistant that was quickly making her way over, "Be nice and I might buy you something."

Feyre grumbled her dispute. But the woman had reached them by that time; practically beaming at Rhysand.

"Your Highness!" she gushed with a curtsey, "It's an honor to have you here." She seemed to undress him with sultry eyes. Feyre tried not to roll hers.

"Hello," Rhysand practically drawled, "I'm here to help my friend find a few items."

"Whatever will these items be used for?"

Rhys feigned innocence a bit too well with a knuckle to his chin, "Feyre darling, you were the one who requested we visit. What is it you want?"

Feyre shot him a death glare. But she also didn't like the way the shop woman was staring at him. So she would play along.

"I wanted something to sleep in," Feyre said to the shop assistant, "You know. Full coverage. Used for nothing but comfort."

"We might have a few," the assistant said a bit tightly, "Right this way."

Rhysand followed first with hands behind his back. Feyre caught up to him as she elbowed him in the side. "There will be payback," she said under her breath.

"Oh, I don't doubt it," he crooned, "But in the meantime, this should be more than worth it."

Feyre wanted to threaten to remove something of similar worth in Rhysand's eyes, but the assistant spoke before she could.

"Is this to your standards, your Highness?" the woman blatantly asked Rhysand. But Feyre could have cared less as she beheld this new level of embarrassment.

Barely-there frocks hung from every hanger. Indeed, everything was for sleeping. But not quite the sleeping Feyre had in mind.

Rhysand's grin only broadened.

"These are perfect, thank you," he said to the shop woman. She in return, gave a slow smile, curtseying low enough that he might catch a glimpse of her ample cleavage.

Rhys only pulled Feyre to his side, "Well, darling, what do you think?" He smiled down at her; and Feyre was pleased to watch the woman balk.

"They'll do." Feyre responded sweetly. And it sent the shop woman scurrying away with imaginary tail between her legs.

Rhys nodded to the very same. "You're welcome." He let her go the next moment, and Feyre had to admit she missed the warmth he gave.

"If you're hoping for a show," she crossed her arms, "You might have more luck with the shop assistant than me."

"Ianthe?" Rhys scoffed to where the woman waved from across the room, "She's tried before and I remain far from interested."

Feyre's scowl only deepened. The fact that Rhysand frequented the establishment enough to know the shop keep by name; let alone for her to make moves on him.

But Rhysand was already browsing the endless of choices in front of them, "But lets forget about all of that," he said, "This is merely a training exercise for you."

"Is that why you brought me here? To teach me another lesson about my magic?"

"You can think whatever you want," Rhys shrugged, "I only wanted to find something to alleviate your siren. Imagine a man refusing you in any of these."

"I don't sleep with any of my targets," Feyre snapped.

Rhysand hummed at that, fingering the lace of a rather skimpy undergarment. "And the night we met?" His eyes met hers; that violet gaze shimmering.

"You enjoy torturing me," was all Feyre said. For her skin was heating at the mere memory of such.

"On the contrary, you return to the North at the end of this week. I already gave you something to remember me by from the gallery. But we have yet to give your siren a gift of her own."

"How about you choose something."

Rhysand paused at that, some part of his arrogance dissipating, "You want me to choose?"

"I want to get out of this store," Feyre all but grumbled, "And if this is how, then it seems I have no choice."

She had to admit enjoying calling his bluff. But Rhysand gathered himself a second later.

"The night your siren tried to seduce me. You wore white," he mused out loud, "That was a mistake."

"Was it."

"Yes." He looked to Feyre, "You should have worn red."

Her breath halted as her gaze fell to what he held.

Rhysand revealed four separate pieces: a lace brassiere; some barely-there panties. Red stockings.

And a garter belt.

"This," he said darkly, "Wear this in front of any man. And your siren will have him worshiping the ground you walk on."

Feyre lifted her chin. "Should we test such a theory?"

What might have been a purr rumbled from his chest, but Rhys did well to recover himself, "Although your siren doesn't work on me, I suppose I can act as judge."

Feyre gave a pert nod as she passed; snatching the hanger as she went. She heard Rhys huff out his chuckle.

But she was already heading to the fitting rooms in the middle of the showroom. They were closed off by a curtain, and seated outside was a velvet cushion for someone to wait.

And watch.

Rhysand took a seat with sickening grace. Feyre didn't allow him to see her nerves as she closed the barrier between them.

"Call if you need help," he called. Feyre fought a grumble.

But it was the sale woman's voice that she heard next, "Did you find something, your Highness?"

"Yes, we did. Thank you."

"If you wish for help with anything else, just let me know," she said a bit lower.

Feyre yanked off her clothes as she listened to them murmur. Gods knew what Rhysand was saying to the woman. But it made Feyre's skin heat as she tore off her own underthings in favor of the new ones in front of her.

And as she pulled on the skimpy frocks, Feyre wondered what smile Rhysand was giving Ianthe. Was it slow and torturous? Or wide and glowing as it lit up his entire face?

But she quickly snapped herself from the thought.

Instead, Feyre concentrated on strapping herself in to the complicated brazier. But there were just so many clasps and straps that overlapped. She didn't know which way was right.

"I think I do need some help," Feyre begrudgingly shouted for Ianthe; perhaps only to force her from Rhysand.

And sure enough, the curtain swiped open a second later.

"I just can't figure which goes where," Feyre turned with a sigh. But it was not Ianthe who had come.

Feyre had barely enough time to cover herself with a nearby robe as Rhysand closed the curtain behind them.

"Ianthe has unfortunately just gone," his eyes met hers through the mirror.

"What?"

"I said I would buy the entire store if she left us. She was getting in the way."

Feyre felt a smugness that Rhysand had not succumbed to Ianthe's flirting at all. But perhaps was annoyed by it.

But Feyre only narrowed her eyes at him, "Whatever you did to make her leave, that doesn't mean I will accept your help."

"Let's make it even then," Rhys started to unbutton his simple tunic. And Feyre could do nothing but stare as he wretched it from his shoulders. The muscles bunched and flexed in its wake.

And then he was shirtless.

"There. Does this level the playing field? I know you're all about fairness," he winked.

Feyre raised her chin at his knowing expression. "Only because I favor this color, do I want to see it on. Definitely not for your accord."

"Of course."

Feyre slowly lowered her robe, but Rhysand caught it the next second. She questioned him with eyes alone. He answered with a dark smirk,

"Don't reveal the surprise. Not yet."

Feyre swallowed as a shiver raked down her spine.

"Here," he offered. Feyre let him lower the robe so he had access to her back; but could not see her front.

Cool air brushed along the newly revealed skin. She already had the see-through panties and brassiere on. But this top was not nearly fitting right.

Rhysand didn't need Feyre to tell him as much as his nimble fingers adjusted the straps. And she had to fight each shiver that was brought forth by his simple touch.

But when Rhys raised each string to straighten along her shoulder blades, Feyre's body erupted in gooseflesh.

Rhysand said nothing of the matter. As he merely grabbed the garter belt from the hanger.

He bent; holding the silk and mesh so she could step into it. And sliding it up to her legs and hips, Feyre had to stifle a groan before he settled the belt along her waist.

He took less time than Feyre would have liked to straighten it. And she frowned knowing Rhys might be as well-versed with women's clothing as his reputation boasted.

But every ounce of disappointment left Feyre as Rhysand's hands snaked down her legs.

The stockings and garter straps were next.

"You don't have to do that part," Feyre dismissed; unable to watch Rhysand fall on his knees for her, once more.

He only smirked, "What kind of friend would I be if I didn't?"

Feyre gulped her reply; letting out a shaky breath as Rhysand slowly knelt in front of her. He held open the red stockings. She swallowed before lifting her foot.

He took it without a thought, and slowly inching the stockings higher and higher on her legs, Feyre pressed her eyes shut at the feeling.

"Don't get too excited," he chuckled when his hands brushed her upper thigh.

Feyre prepared to huff out her offense. But all that evaporated when Rhysand lengthened the garter straps to meet the lace stocking bands.

And Feyre really had to contain her moan when he lengthened the elastic down the curve of her ass.

She glanced down, expecting him to be smug. But Rhysand was nothing but focused as he helped her into the remaining stocking.

Feyre might have imagined his hands linger at the flesh of her right thigh. But he was standing the next moment.

"Well, I'll leave you to decide it for yourself. I now own all the rest of the stock anyhow." He turned with a whoosh of air; not even glancing at the end product.

Feyre watched his reflection leave in a fog. She only caught a glimpse of the lean muscles of his back before he was gone.

She clutched the robe closer as she closed her eyes. Not for decency, but to stop her shiver from reaching her very marrow.

Because it felt like she had done this all before.

She only confronted her own image in the mirror. And her breath caught.

She looked like desire itself; splayed in the color of lust. But it was not her siren she felt beneath it all.

On the contrary, Feyre had forgotten what mask she wore as she surveyed her hands and hair. Was she a southerner or a northerner? Or perhaps Feyre had forgone all masks and was something she hadn't been in years.

Herself.

Feyre swallowed.

This was unwise. She knew better. Feyre had just vowed nothing but friendship between her and Rhysand. For both their countries' sake.

But Gods, how she longed to feel his hands on her again.

So for once in her life, Feyre forgot about her siren or magic. And listened to what she needed.

As Feyre parted the curtain she left behind every excuse and lie she had ever made to keep them apart.

Rhysand sat on that couch. His tunic back on his body, but left open as he braced his elbows on his knees.

Was he as nervous as she? Did he too, understand what this final step would mean?

Feyre glanced around to find Ianthe had indeed, left. So they were truly alone.

But she forgot all of that the instant Rhysand looked up.

Feyre counted the seconds as his violet eyes roved up and down her form. Perhaps he saw not just the red frock displaying her breasts and hips, but what the past weeks had done for her health.

Feyre herself had only just realized what the week with Rhys had given her. Without the siren commanding each day, her real body was full for the first time in her life. Bones were longer sticking out and making her look gaunt.

Feyre's skin too, was no longer pale and dull; but tan and rich from opulent food and proper rest. If she didn't know any better, she would have thought her soul breaking past it all.

And now it was starting to glow under the heat of Rhysand's stare.

"This was more than worth the wait," he finally said.

Feyre released a breath she had been holding until then. She merely looked at her own form.

"I do fancy them more than I thought." She said it to ease the tension in the air. Rhysand only quirked a finger.

"Come here."

Her skin pricked in response. And Feyre had to remind herself to put one foot in front of the other.

Rhys watched with heavy eyes. And when she stopped in front of him; he parted his legs so she could step between.

"How does it feel?" He craned his neck to gaze up at her, and Feyre's heart expanded at his expression: utter reverence.

She sucked in a shaky breath. "They're rather comfortable, actually."

He hummed at that; lowering his attention along her body. Her breasts peaked beneath the lace. His hands tentatively stroked her sides. And Feyre stifled a groan.

"What I meant, Feyre," he rasped, "Was, how does it feel knowing you could conquer every man whist wearing these?"

There was an untouchable moment as their gazes locked. And Feyre felt every inch of space between them.

"Does that include you?" she asked carefully.

His face revealed no answer, but his hands lowered to the skin between her garter and underthings.

"I think you know it does." He dragged his palm along her ass.

Dangerous. Every bit of this was dangerous. But Feyre couldn't think right when it came to him. She thought of nothing. No magic or Kings; nor treaties or war.

She thought of no one but Rhysand.

And her eyes fluttered shut.

Feyre gasped when his grasp dipped between her legs. He only traced the line the lace panties made. But when Rhysand met the top band and slipped his finger beneath, she groaned.

Feyre knew she was already drenched and waiting. She had been the instant he came into the dressing room.

All he had to do was go lower to know the same.

"Feyre," he groaned her name. She felt herself waver before closing her eyes tighter. He parted the cloth from her legs. But he did not touch the heated flesh beneath.

"Open your eyes, Feyre."

She shook her head. Because if she did, then that meant she would become herself again.

Feyre would be a northerner, and he a southerner. She would return to being some traitorous temptress. And she would have to go home; perhaps never to see Rhysand ever again.

Never to feel this again.

"Look at me." He withdrew his hands, and she whimpered. He only cupped her face. "Look at me, Feyre."

She let out a sigh as she finally did. Rhysand's brows were drawn in concern. His lips pressed thin. "What's wrong?"

"I thought I could do this," she whispered. "But I can't."

"Then don't, Feyre." His eyes beseeched hers in the worst way, "Don't go."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


	12. Chapter 12

Feyre woke up in a bed that was not her own. Immediately, she clutched her cheek, feeling the searing heat of nothing but her own skin.

But it had felt so real.

Rhysand's hands had felt real. The words had been spoken like they were real.

But it had all been a dream.

She glanced around to what she now recognized as the Princess' rooms. Then Feyre suddenly remembered Mor offering her to stay in different chambers after what had happened earlier.

The riot.

Now it was all coming back to Feyre. The northern refugees knew she was there.

Mor had taken them to the safe house. Afterwards Amren had joined and they had dinner in town before returning to the palace.

Then that meant the gallery, and the lingerie shop with Rhysand….

It had been nothing but fantasy.

Feyre rose with a groan; hardly believing her mind had conjured such. Perhaps her mind was so cluttered that was its' way of coping.

But as she headed for the bathing chamber, Feyre spotted a white box sitting on a nearby desk.

And atop, was a large parchment with her name on it.

Feyre warily undid the purple bow that bound it together. And sliding off the lid, she found something that took her breath away.

Fighting leathers.

And as she lifted the garment out, she read the note with nothing but guilt in her chest.

' _Dearest Feyre,'_ she read the unmistakable feminine script. So it was written by Mor. Since Feyre doubted Amren had the care to do so,

 _Your presence here has not been taken lightly,'_ the note said _, 'We thank you for your sacrifice and your flexibility in these hard times. I'd like to think we're above bribery. But see this armor as our official apology to you; if only you accept it._

 _Don't ask Rhysand how they were made so quickly, but if you ask me in person, I might just tell you."_

Feyre stilled at that, before reading on,

" _I hope recent events have not scared you away. But even if they have, and you must leave us, we will remain reverently faithful to you."_

 _Yours with friendship,_

 _Morrigan_

' _P.S, Azriel and Cassian invite you to come to tomorrow's training, since now you have armor of your own.'_

Feyre finished the note with a deep breath; clutching the thick paper to her chest as tears started to form in her eyes.

There had been so many ups and downs in such little time. And it was beginning to wear her out more than her siren ever did.

Feyre warily laid out the armor to find it masterfully crafted. It was completely black in color, but etched in the breast plate was her sigil.

The wings and triton.

Feyre was quick to move past that part. The series of panels were pieced exactly like Cassian and Azriel's.

Nothing like the plated armor of Rhysand's; so she would not be singled out. Yet it was formed in a feminine shape as to expertly fit her body.

Feyre's real body, that was.

How they knew her measurements, she did not know. Then Mor's comment edged at her mind:

 _Don't ask Rhysand how it was made so quickly._

Feyre knew enough of textiles that the armor must to have been commissioned long before Rhysand sailed North.

So the only answer was that someone had had it commissioned before. Someone who held complete faith in her; enough to have her own armor waiting when Feyre agreed to join the fight.

And she knew only of one person who could be so bold.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

After Feyre gathered herself from the outrageous gift. She was quick to find her own chamber. Because she desperately needed a cold shower. And had no idea how to operate the Princess' complicated bathing chamber.

As she made her way through the breezy halls towards Rhysand's wing, Feyre shifted skin to something utterly unforgettable.

The last thing they needed was another riot because someone thought she was back in the castle.

"Feyre?" Someone called from behind, effectively interrupting her thoughts.

She turned; expecting to find Azriel or Cassian. Only to find someone who made her skin go cold.

Tamlin.

She realized by answering, whatever mask she had on was now useless. Tamlin smiled like he knew the same. Feyre only stood straighter.

"Here to start another riot?" she cut. His grin only broadened.

"I could ask you the same. You were the cause after all." he said and Feyre visibly tensed. He only presented a single piece of parchment, "But I only came to give you a message."

Feyre's eyes locked onto the letter, and her heart sunk. Because imprinted within the wax was a pair of wings and a sea triton.

Her sisters had answered.

"Give that to me now. And I won't tell Rhysand you were here," she said. Tamlin smirked as he pocketed the paper. And Feyre her senses pricked in fear.

This was not good.

"Rhysand can't even keep his own people under control," Tamlin scoffed, "And he can't keep you forever. The King will see you returned. Immediately."

Feyre didn't answer as she wavered on her feet; testing Tamlin's own intent. He stood fast as she tried recalling what defense moves Azriel had taught.

In case Tamlin tried to take her with force.

"What do youwant?" she finally asked. Perhaps she could bribe him with money. He only cocked his head with a shrug.

"I want what the King does."

"Why should you care for his interests?"

"That doesn't matter. All that matters is that you set sail back home within forty-eight hours. But before you go, you must convince Rhysand to sign the King's treaty, once and for all."

"Why would I do that?"

"Oh, you will. Or your sisters will find their end."

At that, Feyre's entire body went slack. Tamlin preened to see her face turn white.

"I see that got your attention."

"Rhysand won't just let me leave," Feyre managed to respond even if her blood started to turn cold, "I haven't fulfilled my time here. You must give me more time."

"Your excuses will do no good," Tamlin all but growled, "Either you find a way to convince Rhysand, or he will have no choice in the matter."

Feyre didn't want to ask what Tamlin meant by it. So all she asked was, "Why are you doing this? What possible gain does this bring?"

Tamlin gave her a hateful sneer, "Rhysand thinks he can have everything. He will soon find himself dreadfully wrong."

And with that, Tamlin slipped into the darkness. Feyre barely had enough clarity to remain standing, let alone try and see where he went.

Then she saw what lay on the ground.

Her sisters' letter.

Feyre snatched it up without breathing. She gazed back to make sure he had gone.

And then she was moving down the hall; tearing it open so swiftly she couldn't feel anything as the paper scratched her skin.

And her heart felt as though it might fly out of her chest as she unfolded each crease to find Nesta's neat script had written two words.

 _Help us._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Feyre clutched the letter against her heart in her own chambers. As if she could conjure her sisters there by will alone.

She was still in bed that next morning; stalling because she had no idea what to do.

To give in to the Kings demands would save her sisters. It was the obvious choice.

But it was one that would not save Rhysand. If he signed the treaty there would be no war.

But it would damn their world to the King's ill will.

Who was to say the King wasn't bluffing? That her sisters weren't already gone?

Feyre pressed her eyes shut at the thought. Her beautiful sisters: the kind Elain, and fierce Nesta; taken from this world.

So Feyre had no choice but one.

She had to convince Rhysand to bend to a man he despised. And furthermore, she would still have to leave.

For good.

"Feyre, you look pale," she spun to a feminine voice, her heart sinking to hear it. Feyre hid the letter beneath just as Mor entered her room.

She must not have heard her knock; since it had become customary this past week for them to take breakfast together.

But unlike all the mornings before; Feyre was not ready to receive her. And Mor noticed.

"Are you alright?" Mor asked with a pointed look to the disheveled bedspread, evidence of Feyre's restless night. She sat up straighter,

"I only miss my sisters. I still wait for their letter," Feyre half-way lied. Mor nodded solemnly.

"Then I hate to ask this with the event just yesterday, but Rhysand orders you to train with him today."

"Orders?"

"Of course, when I say order, I mean offer. Rhysand knows he cannot command you."

Feyre bit her lip. She couldn't see Rhysand today. She had heard him enter his own room last night.

She also might have heard the floor boards groan particularly close to their adjoining door. But the footsteps retreated the very same moment.

"Tell him I don't think I can go today."

"Why?" Mor scooted closer, "Do you not like the fighting leathers?"

Feyre balked to remember the outrageous gift. But she was quick to move past it, "It's not that," she said, "It's that I can't even begin to deserve such."

"Nonsense," Mor brushed her off. Already standing to find said armor from the box where Feyre had left it on purpose.

Because one look at them would cause another wave of guilt to come crashing down. "You deserve that armor, and more."

Feyre swallowed before she asked the question she would surely regret. But she had to know.

"In the note," Feyre started, "You said if I asked, you would tell me how it was made so quickly."

Mor gave her a long look, "I think you already know the answer."

Feyre's chest seized. "So Rhysand had it made before he even met me in the North. Why?"

"He had it long before that, actually. Far before Rhysand even knew the King had you at his disposal."

Feyre regretting ever asking. She had no idea how to piece together all the information she was given: either Rhys had kept it from his own sister.

Or he had known of Feyre long before she was ever in the King's service.

"But no matter," Mor said, "You're using it now, aren't you? So let's hurry and get you into it before Rhysand comes and demands your presence himself."

"Mor, I simply cannot accept this."

"Well, at least let me see you put it on!" Mor grasped Feyre's hand and led her to a stool in front of a full-length mirror.

Perhaps meant to try on gowns or other frocks of that nature. But Mor seemed more than happy to help Feyre into the underlying leather. Then she strapped on the top plates.

And with each portion, Feyre felt more like a treacherous snake

"There!" Mor clapped her hands; taking a step back to admire her better. "Oh, you look stunning. But you also look like you could take on the Gods themselves. Quite the knock-out combination if you ask me."

"I think you're exaggerating." Feyre didn't recognize her reflection as she turned. But not because of some mask she wore.

Because the fitted armor made her look like a force to be reckoned with. Not some weak temptress reliant on her magic.

But a warrior reliant on herself.

It was then a second voice called from the shadows.

"I assure you, Mor is not exaggerating in the slightest."

Feyre pressed her eyes shut to hear that voice. She couldn't dare face it. Thankfully it was Mor that answered her brother.

"Do you think Feyre and I like you appearing when least expected?"

Feyre watched Rhysand's reflection from the conjoined doorway as he entered with pure grace.

Then she recalled her dream starring him. Feyre studied his face as he deftly avoided her own. Had she accidently projected her dream to him? But he seemed unchanged as he smirked to his sister, "I must admit I do enjoy seeing your shock each time I do, Mor."

"Then that makes you a brute for enjoying such a thing," Mor returned.

Rhysand finally met Feyre's gaze through the mirror, and he shot her a secretive wink as his sister scowled at him.

Feyre had yet to say anything.

"So?" Mor smiled, "How does it feel? As good as it looks?"

Feyre glanced between them. Rhysand waited.

"It feels odd." Feyre paused for the hurt to cross their faces. But Rhys merely shrugged.

"You'll get used to it. I want to practice more defenses today. Both physical and magical."

"Does your persistence ever get tiring?" Feyre blinked at his brilliant face. He angled his head up to her with a slow smile.

"It runs in the family." Mor was the one who answered. Rhysand's attention remained on Feyre.

"Call it a strong faith we hold in people," he said. And Feyre was hit with her reality.

How was she supposed to explain that she not only couldn't stay, but Rhysand needed to sign the King's treaty; a request that made her sick to even think of.

Second to leaving him.

But as Rhysand came closer to the podium that put her above them both, Feyre's tongue was suddenly stuck in her throat.

Not just from the riot or Tamlin, but the eerie dream Feyre had. She knew it hid inner meaning, but she couldn't begin to decipher it.

"I suppose I'm just a bit nervous with what happened yesterday." Feyre tested the waters. Was he thinking of the vision he had shown her on that field, or the riot?

Rhysand only pressed his lips together.

"Another riot won't happen," he said, "Not after the King is dealt with for good."

Feyre found it suddenly hard to swallow.

"I could join training today if it helps!" Mor changed the subject when she noticed how Feyre's face went white. Rhysand groaned to his sister.

"Please don't. Feyre and I are actually going to do some work. Something not quite to your tastes."

Mor only stuck out her tongue. Something that should have lightened Feyre's spirits. But it only made her chest ache.

To be included in such an exchange between royal siblings felt so natural. To be in both their lives was an honor Feyre would never forget.

And she wished with all her heart she could stay.

"So?" Rhysand finally quirked to Feyre, "What do you say we give those northern spies something interesting to feed the King for once?"

She knew why he said it. Rhysand didn't want her hiding after yesterday. Gods knew that was all Feyre wanted to do.

But Rhys perhaps knew her insecurities better than Feyre herself. And he didn't want her leaving before she faced everyone.

And Feyre didn't have the strength to deny herself one last chance of being with him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rhysand's gait was relaxed as they headed to the same field as yesterday. But Feyre halted as she saw the training field bare.

"Where are all the men?" Feyre balked. The grounds appeared even bigger now that all the soldiers had left.

"Cassian has everyone patrolling the town or castle to keep peace after yesterday. But I doubt anyone would try anything. Either way, I thought we'd use it as an advantage."

"For what?"

Rhysand came to her front as they stopped. "We already know that your siren can make people bend to your will. But that comes with a price. I thought why not explore other ways your magic can persuade?"

"You want me to mind read again?" Feyre breathed, "But yesterday—"

Rhysand winced, "That vision you slipped into was unfortunate and nothing but a dream. But I promise it won't happen again."

So it wasn't a memory after all but fantasy. Just like her own.

Maybe the stress of the King and impeding war were getting to tehboth of them.

But as Rhysand's previous words sunk in, Feyre was left uneasy.

Rhys wanted her to attempt to control his will. But to take his mind was not just extremely difficult….

But enormously intimate.

"Don't expect much," she said with a forceful smile. Rhys might have lingered on her face; measuring her inner truth. But he only rolled his shoulders.

"Taking a mind is never easy, Feyre," he said more seriously, "What I did to Tamlin, was something I only accomplished after years of practice. But it's never too late to start."

Feyre froze, not from the gravity of Rhysand's power; but at that name.

Tamlin.

And she once more, was hit head on with what had to be done.

She _had_ to depart or the only family she ever known would be killed. Even if she was long without a mother and father; Feyre could not loose Elain and Nesta.

Rhysand only saw the hesitation as nerves.

"This is a way for you do to something without the siren's help, Feyre," his voice slipped lower, "You can do this."

Feyre wavered at the promise in those violet eyes. Rhys only waited.

"So what should I have you do?" She swallowed. And his answering smirk made her stomach clench.

"Whatever you wish me to do, Feyre darling," he purred. She managed a huff at his teasing.

But a single idea edged at her mind. Perhaps if Feyre mastered her magic enough, she could convince Rhysand what words could not.

To sign the treaty and forfeit all thought of war between their continents.

And let her go.

"I uh, have one more favor to ask of you," Feyre started, "Now that I have explored this part of my magic, you have to promise me one last thing."

"Alright," he said a bit cautiously, "What would you have me promise?"

Feyre pressed her eyes shut.

He could not know the King's plot. None of them could. Because if Rhysand ever found out Tamlin's threat, he would wage war to get her back.

And Feyre couldn't let him sacrifice his people for her.

"Whatever it is, it doesn't look like I will like it," Rhys said as Feyre remained silent.

"That's beside the point. Do you promise?"

"Anything for you," Rhysand vowed with hand over heart. And when he widened his stance in preparation, the gravity of what he was allowing Feyre to do encircled her heart like a vice.

"Remember. You can do this," he said, eyes already closed. She nodded even if her confidence wavered.

Feyre closed her own eyes, finding Rhysand's mind immediately. It was strength and power and his deafening magic all spun into one.

And Feyre knew even if the entire yard had been strewn with men, she would have been able to find him instantly.

Like yesterday, his mind was sealed to any hint of her intrusion. But she knew her way in. All Feyre had to do was drag an imaginary touch. And Rhys melted.

She had no time to wonder if he had let her in on purpose. Because as soon as she stepped through that threshold, a very different sort of consciousness surrounded her.

Unlike yesterday: the dream he shown Feyre yesterday had been ridden with guilt and desperation; sadness and regret.

But the Rhysand that stood before her now, was changed.

The first thing Feyre felt was the amount of responsibility he held. It was a maze of dreams. Everything was fraught with a single intention:

A world built for everyone.

But there was darkness in the mix. It loomed like a great shadow over his thoughts. But no matter how Feyre tried to capture a bit in order see what it held, it dissipated like mist.

Feyre sensed that such a darkness had nearly driven Rhysand mad. Perhaps she had gotten a taste from yesterday.

Maybe he would have caved in on himself it he wasn't so damned determined to turn the tides of this world: the rich would pay their equal share; crime would be eradicated and poverty would be no more.

Feyre didn't know if it was his love for his people; or admiration for his friends and family that kept him going. But it was all so overwhelming.

But she could do nothing but take in a shuddering breath and move on. Further into his mind as she pushed herself deeper; past everything he had ever been or hoped to be. Then Feyre reached his center.

Rhysand's very essence.

And the sudden unseen covenant that drove him, almost choked the air from her lungs. Who or where it was made by, Feyre had no idea. For this secret was more hidden than any of her own guilt or transgressions.

So she left it there un-breached.

Instead, she took Rhysand's mind into her imaginary palms. And she swore he sighed to be able to rest, just this once.

"You must sign the King's treaty," Feyre hushed against his spinning thoughts. Rhysand's body tensed, so Feyre repeated the order, "If you sign it, you will save the world and your people. You must sign it."

It hurt her like a physical blow to lie to him. But she would not let Rhysand die for his pride. Their world would survive; maybe not the world he imagined.

But her sisters and the man she cared for would be alive and well.

And that was enough.

"I will, Feyre," she heard Rhysand's resounding answer. His voice was deeper than usual. And then she realized that she was hearing Rhys as he heard himself.

"And you will let me go." She paused before revealing the final request, "You must leave me with the King. You must never save me ever again."

The entire time she had taken a hold, Rhysand's mind remained willing.

But at that final order, his mind seized. So violently that before Feyre knew what was happening, she was being laid back in her own body.

And when she found herself in her own mind: her thoughts were saturated in so much shame and remorse, it almost made her retch.

But she managed to pull her attention back to Rhys. His entire body was heaving as his eyes silted to something close to anger as he beheld her.

"What happened?"

"I pushed you out," he growled, "Because not even you could convince me to leave you. Not again."

"I'm sorry." Feyre tried to stand tall; but she was weakening with each waning second.

"I know yesterday was hard," Rhys said darkly, "But you can't leave, not now."

She couldn't look at him, for if she did face him, he would read it in her eyes.

Feyre did not want to leave him.

And now the agony of making Rhys sign with the King, only after coming to realize how agonizing it would for him to do so….

It was making the last scrap of her mask crumble.

"Tell me what's changed." He came closer; but did not touch her. It was Feyre who did. She took his forearms for nothing but strength alone.

Because the next words would not be easy.

"The King wishes my return, or there will be grave consequences for you and this kingdom." She looked to the ground; unable to feed the lie looking him in the eye.

Rhysand only angled her chin to him; and Feyre's lips wobbled too see his concerned gaze.

"That King can't threaten you any longer." Rhysand hushed. Feyre shook her head from his grasp.

And he let her.

"That's not the only reason," Feyre said, "I miss home and I miss my sisters. I want to go." A lie. But one she knew Rhysand couldn't refute.

"I thought you—" he cut off, "I thought you were beginning to see Velaris as your home."

Feyre ached to see the hurt in his eyes. She knew what he had stopped himself from saying.

Rhysand thought she had come to love him.

Feyre turned away from the truth.

"But that's why I have to leave." Tears were started to form, "You cannot win a war and rebuild this world; while keep the King's prize at the same time. He won't allow it."

"Don't go, Feyre," was all he said, "Don't give in now."

She managed to face him. And the pure surrender she saw in his face made her heart seize.

"Believe when I say I do this for your own safety, I don't want to break our bargain." Feyre was pleading now; perhaps with herself more than him.

"Then stay," Rhysand all but snarled; his final vulnerability manifesting into anger. "If you wish to leave on your own accord, all you have to do was ask. You needn't bother claiming the King is behind it."

She balked, "I'm trying to save everything we hold dear; the details of such I can't reveal. But do you really think I would ever willfully deceive you?"

"Then stay and we can defeat the King together." Rhysand confronted her suddenly; taking her face between his palms. And Feyre melted. "Prove once and for all, you have chosen your side." His eyes darted between hers; and she felt her tears finally fall.

"I can't," she murmured. And his face collapsed. "But I will forever honor your friendship beyond anything else."

"Am I already so much in your past? You know you have more than my friendship. You have my heart, Feyre," Rhysand suddenly dropped to his knees, "So become more than my advisor or consort. Become my wife."

Her eyes shot wide open. But Rhysand was already pulling a velvet box from his pocket.

"Rhysand," she warned.

"You can't return to the north because you no longer belong there. You belong by my side." Rhysand revealed a sparkling ring. And Feyre was struck frozen.

"Marry me, Feyre."

A sob ratcheted from her chest. "I can't marry you."

"Then look at me and say you don't love me. That will be the only answer I accept."

Feyre tried to quiet her breathing, but she made the mistake of looking at the ring he held.

A single diamond was surrounded by a circle of sapphires, blue of deepest night; and swirled around them in silver gold was…

Two wings.

"I want to be yours more than anything in this world," Feyre said softer, "But that is why I have to go. I will not let our people pay the price."

His eyes hardened. "Please."

She shook her head with a clenched jaw. "I have to go."

Rhysand finally stood; and the blankness in his face was nothing she had ever seen.

How many times had they fought or clashed? The same amount of times they came together in pleasure and desire.

But this reaction was not love or hate but hollowness. Nothingness.

It matched the depthless feeling in Feyre's soul as she had to leave him standing alone in that field.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mor gave her a tight hug, one that Feyre tried to categorize into her mind. Because she had an inkling that the King would not let her outside the palace again, let alone the country.

They were at the docks. Velaris was splayed out behind them.

Cassian, Azriel, Mor and even Amren were there wishing their final goodbyes.

Rhysand was not.

"I will miss you all," Feyre wiped a tear before it could fall, "Please know I only hold fond memories of my time here."

"Oh, Feyre. I wish you could tell us why you have to leave," Mor's lips wobbled. Feyre just shook her head.

"I don't want to endanger any more people. Least of all, you."

Mor seemed to accept that, and finally released Feyre from her hold.

Cassian turned to her now, dipping in a low bow that made her stomach clench, "Safe travels, Feyre. And I shouldn't have to tell you, if you ever need me to beat someone's ass in the North, you should only write."

Feyre laughed at that. But Azriel gave the captain a stern look, "What Cassian forgets, is that you should be able to kick their asses yourself."

"Of course," Feyre nodded, in which Azriel gave one of his coveted smiles, "Thank you for the lesson. I will endeavor to put it to good use."

"I hope you will never have to. But either way, be smart, Feyre." The spy-master said before Amren was took his place in front.

"I don't need to know why you are leaving to sense you do it for the wrong reasons." Amren said sternly.

"But I must leave either way." Feyre couldn't jeopardize everything they had worked for. Her own happiness was not equal to their worlds'. And Rhysand would find a wife worthy of the title.

"Then I cannot say anything else but wish you luck," Amren nodded. But a sadness encompassed her features.

Feyre only forced her feet move backwards. But her eyes lingered towards the palace.

"He wishes he could be here," Mor read the sadness in her eyes, "Important business called him out of the capitol."

Feyre gave a solemn nod. She hadn't expected Rhys to come and say goodbye. But at the same moment, it hurt like hell to not be able to see him one last time.

"Just tell him goodbye for me."

"We will."

Feyre made one move backwards. But she stopped suddenly.

She quickly slipped the ring from her pocket: the only thing she had for him to remember her by. Her only marker in their world.

Feyre wanted it to remain with him.

"Here." She said as she placed it in Mor's open palm, "Give him this." Feyre took in a shuddering breath, "And tell him I think he will be a High Lord worth waiting for. And he's right in waiting. He should wait for no one but his equal."

The Princess nodded, tears starting to fall from her eyes. Feyre didn't know if Mor knew about Rhysand's proposal, but she didn't say anything else.

Feyre did the same. And with firm feet, she turned to the ship that would take her home.

No, not home, but away from the real home she had come to know.

A home Feyre hadn't known could ever have. A place she had finally belonged, and a place she had made the best of friends.

Where she had found love that was so crushing and so powerful, she hardly knew it possible.

But perhaps to keep it, Feyre had to say goodbye.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Oh Feyre, we missed you so much!" Elain cried before pulling Feyre into a bone-crushing hug.

Nesta watched from her side, smiling as Feyre clutched their youngest sister closer.

She was back in the northern continent; just hours ago when she had stepped off the ship from the weeks journey.

"Thank the Gods you're alright!" Feyre held Elian back as to look at their soft, kind sister. "How are you?"

Feyre turned to Nesta, cupping her eldest sister's fierce features into her hand to make sure they were both real.

They were alive.

And now they were back in their chambers. Feyre felt how confiding those same walls were now. How had she stayed so much indoors without feeling like a caged bird?

All of it, from the dark stone castle, to the lavish red and gold curtains and rugs and furniture that made her feel like she was going to choke…

It made her miss the Night Court.

It made her miss Rhysand.

But Feyre would not pity herself. She was finally back with her sisters.

"Well, of course we're alright," Elain said, "Even if we missed you terribly, we didn't perish completely without you."

"But the letter you sent?" Feyre looked to each of them, and Nesta and Elain gave her confused looks.

"We tried writing," Nesta said, "But each letter went unanswered."

So the note Feyre had received by Tamlin was a fake. A trick to move Feyre to their whims.

She clenched her teeth to know the King to even threaten her loved ones in any way.

"I received nothing from you either," Feyre lied. The King must have intercepted all their letters. She merely planted a smile on her face, "I'm glad to hear you got on well without me anyhow."

"We're so glad you're home, Feyre," Nesta pulled her into a rare hug. And it was an effort for Feyre not to bury her head into her sister's shoulder.

They were real, and most importantly, they were safe. She kept repeating the words in her head, or else Feyre's might cleave in half.

Nesta pulled back, "I would say the sun did your skin a favor if you didn't look like you've seen a ghost. Tell us what is the matter."

"Nothings wrong, it's just—" Feyre took a deep breath, "—I can hardly believe you two are real. These weeks have felt like a lifetime."

"Really? I think they went by rather fast."

Elain elbowed Nesta in the side, and it made Feyre's tight face relax slightly.

"Of course we missed you Feyre," Elain smiled, "But it was lovely to know you were finally away from court and living your life."

"Speaking of such," Feyre said, "How have things been here?" It was a careful question. And the reply, Feyre did well to read in each of their faces before they answered.

"It's been boring." Nesta groaned, "The King would invite us to a dinner now and then. But for some reason, he's increased security. We now each have a guard that follows us wherever we go. Which, of course, is quite bothersome. But the King claims it's necessary."

Feyre pressed her lips together; careful to remain expressionless when she asked, "Did he tell you the reason for the increase?"

"No." Elain's voice was a softness Feyre hadn't known she missed so much 'till then, "But since we were told of your failed kidnapping by those awful bandits, we haven't questioned it. And by the Gods, were we relieved when we heard the Prince's gallantry saved you both. Although the King hinted it was the Prince's fault all along."

Feyre was struggling to keep her face neutral.

"The King said that the Prince was less than honest," Elain went on, "The King would have us believe that the Prince planned all of it. Forcing you to go with him, making you feel like your life was in danger so you would bend to him that much more. All the while, distancing you from the King."

"Is it true?" Nesta pressed, "We were so worried when we heard whispers the Prince took you the southern continent on a _Pirate's_ ship? And this being after your carriage was taken upon bandits?"

"All of it is true," Feyre nodded solemnly, "But all of it was _because_ of the King. Rhys would never put me in harm's way."

Each her sisters' brows rose. And Feyre realized why.

She had not referred to him as his highness or the Prince. But revealed how candid her and Rhysand had become.

Feyre's sisters didn't prod the fact any further. Nesta only sat a bit straighter, "But do you think the Prince planned it all to insight war?"

Feyre bit her lip. "I know Rhys—I mean the Prince. He didn't particularly care for the King. But I also know he would not risk destruction on our world.

"Of course, he wouldn't," Elain seemed to accept that.

But Nesta remained unconvinced. "What happened there, Feyre? From the talk around here, it sounded like you became very…close to the Prince."

"I did." Feyre answered truthfully, "But I also broke my promise to him in order come back to you. My sisters will always come first."

Surprisingly, Nesta looked more concerned from Feyre's words, rather than comforted.

"Well, enough questions. I'm sure you're famished," Elain swept Feyre to her side. Nesta went to the other.

And Feyre hadn't realized how much she missed the comfort that her sisters could bring.

"Would you wish a bath drawn while you wait for supper?" Elain asked softly, and Feyre went still.

"No thank you," Feyre forced her voice into lightness, but she wanted any remnants of the south to stay on her as long as possible.

Then slowly, as Feyre closed her eyes, her sisters' arms transformed into someone else's.

Arms that were so strong and warm, they had once lifted the sorrows Feyre hadn't even realized she bore.

But in one moment they were there, and in another, they were gone.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Feyre was dead. Well that's what it felt like to be walking through these halls. She didn't give a thought to what face to wear as she walked towards the throne room.

She had been summoned.

But she would not find _him_ there. Waiting with that insufferable grin. Probably about to make a comment that would made her flush with pleasure or anger.

Perhaps both.

Feyre had to keep telling herself she was not in the Night Court. Each morning she shot from her bed swearing she had felt him beside her.

But soon she came to focus, Feyre understood she was back in the North. But the realization never ceased to make her heart plummet.

Yet out of all the outcomes Feyre had expected to happen upon her return, the very worst had happened: nothing had changed at all.

She had expected endless questions and suspicion by everyone she encountered. Most of all, by the King. But it was quite the opposite.

The King treated her like normal. He smiled, like Tamlin had not threatened her. Or her sister's lives had never been in question.

But most surprisingly, there had been no questions of the Prince of the Night Court.

She wasn't even sure if Rhys had signed the treaty like she had asked. For it had been nearly two months since Feyre's return and no one spoke of it.

She had already lost all the weight she had once gained in the Night Court. Feyre was back to shifting from countless masks a day.

The King required her to persuade the Lords of new territories to remain fully loyal to the king. And she drove head first into her duties.

Only in hopes to keep her mind from him.

Now Feyre was back to dreading getting out of bed. Because as soon as she did, the siren would take hold.

Her naps increased to thrice a day. Feyre had to eat every hour or she would collapse.

But the targets kept coming. She hadn't realized how many new kingdoms the treaty had united. But each Lord was hers with nothing but a smile and a word.

And no matter how she ached for rest, Feyre would not let them see her weakness.

Above all, she vowed to never broach what Rhysand had taught her.

For her to use her mind against her victims, it was unthinkable. Because there was that fear of growing exhausted in other ways.

Feyre was afraid if she broke into a mind, she would find their consciousness preferable to hers. And fall into that nothingness, never to resurface.

But the King never asked what she had seen across that green sea. For all he knew, Feyre was his ever-dutiable ward.

His un-wilted flower.

And despite knowing her sisters were safe, perhaps never in danger in the first place, Feyre hated herself more than ever before.

"Ah, my flower," the King raised his hand as she entered the throne room. It was an effort for not to scowl.

How had she not noticed the King reminded her of an eel? How had she realized that he always seemed to be sweating no matter the temperature?

But Feyre managed a smile.

She thought of Elaine and Nesta safe and fed.

Of Mor and Cassian. Azriel and Amren. They would live through this. Perhaps even bring prosperity to their country without the threat of war.

But she would not think of him. Not if she wanted to crumble into a heap of nothing.

But the King broke her from her thoughts, "So, I think it's safe to say you've had time to adjust here. Long enough that we can finally get some answers."

She noticed the Kings table, was unlike the other well-used table Feyre had been allowed to sit at in the Night Court. That table had been equal, every person had their own side.

But the King's table was made so that he alone sat at the head. And it made Feyre want to push him from his seat and demand he prove his worth of it.

"Flower?"

Feyre blinked back into awareness as she looked up blankly. The King's face tightened slightly.

It was a slip in his own mask. A mask that perhaps, was more intricate and more powerful than Feyre's millions.

He cleared his throat. "I asked of your time spent in the south. Even if the Prince finally agreed to sign my treaty, they remain the biggest continent. We need to know every weakness and power in case they revolt."

"I learned of no such details," Feyre's tone was beyond dull.

"You were there long enough. Tell us anything."

"Be more specific then."

The King's eyes twitched. But it was when a random Lord piped up from down the table,

"Was the economy robust? Are the people in support of the Prince's claim to the throne? Or is it just a continent of nothing, made into something by mere rumors?"

"It was exactly as the rumors told. And more," Feyre answered with no amount of politeness.

"Could you explain?" The King sat forward in his chair, as the rest of the Lords murmured to each other. "How do you thing the young Prince would compare to me?" The King quirked. Feyre just stared. So he changed the question, "To start, how many advisors did his highness take to counsel?"

That Feyre felt she could answer, "Four."

The King balked slightly. But he covered it with a forced chuckle. The rest of the table quickly followed. But she saw the minute fear in his eyes.

"Surely, he kept the rest from you." The King said, "The Prince of the biggest continent in the world has to take more consultants."

"He didn't need more. And two were women."

It was that faceless Lord that spoke up again, "Women taking council with a soon-to-be King? That's unheard of."

"All of you are forgetting we don't have to worry," The King quickly silenced the mumbling of his lords, "This Prince will never be crowned,"

Feyre's head shot sideways, "What did you just say?"

The King angled his head to her, "You didn't know? His highness forfeited his right to be High Lord the instant he signed my treaty. It was part of the agreement. Now all continents; north east west and south, kneel to me."

"Rhys would never give up his throne," Feyre sputtered. She paused to look at the rest of the table, "Surely the rest of the continents didn't agree to the same." A sweat broke out on her neck at the realization.

Because they _hadn't_ agreed willingly. None of them had.

Feyre's siren had been the once to seduce them to the King's side. Feyre hadn't even realized what she had been doing the past months she had been so tired.

She thought the treaty had already been signed each time she seduced those lords. Feyre thought she was keeping _peace._

But the King hadn't convinced anyone to sign the treaty.

It had all been Feyre.

The King was silent; but a smile edged on his disgusting lips. Gods, how Feyre had been an utter idiot.

He had used her like the puppet she was. He had lied and deceived and used Feyre's siren in the worst of ways.

Just like Rhysand had warned her.

The rest of the Lord's nerves were palpable as the King cocked his head to her. "Rhys? What a delightful name. Did he ask you call him that while you shared his bed?"

Feyre blinked. But she did not falter as she corrected, "I meant the Prince."

The King folded his hands. But there was a gleam in his eyes.

"You would have our world remain split?" he scoffed, "What if I agreed to treat you like that Prince did? I bet you'd warm to me _and_ the treaty."

No one said a word as Feyre's face turned beat red. But she surged on, "You are mistaken."  
"Yes, I think I have a good idea of my mistake. I never should have allowed you to leave the capitol." the King grumbled, "But either way, I am satisfied. You are excused, Feyre."

She nodded. But did not curtsey before she left.

And only once out the door did Feyre realize after years of being called a flower, the King had actually used her name.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Pack your things, we're leaving," Feyre rushed back to her chambers as soon as she left the throne room.

She had lost her chaperone by a secret corridor hidden in the stone walls. They were built as a way of passage out of the castle if seize came to and people needed a way to evacuate.

And that was just what Feyre and her sisters were doing.

They were all in danger. Feyre should not have voiced herself so blatantly to Rhysand's side.

But she was so done with it all. Done with the servitude. Done with using her siren in such a way.

All for a false king that would threaten her loved ones to get what he wanted.

So Feyre was taking a stance. For once in her life, she would not be complacent.

Feyre had been writing to Cassian; telling him of the King's progress. As soon as the treaty was signed, the pirate had suggested Feyre leave for good.

She had been hesitant. But now, they had to leave, or likely be kept here against their wills.

All they would have to do is slip out through the night and take refuge somewhere in the city. And then Feyre would write Cassian to take them across the sea.

"Feyre, what's wrong?" Elain and Nesta stood in an instant, "What do you mean we're leaving?"

"I mean that we're leaving the palace, and eventually the North. For good."

"Finally!" Nesta sang, raising her hands in praise. Feyre raised her brows. Elain flashed a shocked glare to their eldest sister.

"What? I've wanted to leave this shit-pile of a continent for a while now," Nesta shrugged. Feyre chuckled at that, but Elain remained un-convinced.

"Feyre, what does this mean? Where will we go?" Elain asked. Nesta was already packing.

Feyre cupped their youngest sister's cheek, "We are going far away from this King and his evil hand."

"Are you saying what I think you are?" Nesta was already grinning. And Feyre returned her own. A real smile.

One, that after so many years of faking, felt freeing to give whole-heartedly.

"Yes." Feyre said, "We're leaving for the Night Court."


	13. Chapter 13

They waited. Although it was the hardest thing Feyre had to do in her entire life, they couldn't simply stroll out of the castle.

Feyre's magic could only do so much. Her siren, to work, required her victims to stop and look.

And even with her tiny bit of Azriel's training, Feyre couldn't defend any point-blank attack.

So they would wait for the guards to change by their doors, and slip out as nothing but maids.

"Tell me what it is like," Nesta whispered from across the bed.

Since their time in the castle, they all had their separate chambers. But tonight, they shared a bed, needing each other for something far more than warmth.

"Its sparkling and shinning and warm." Feyre answered, not having to Nesta what she meant ask to know, "The food in the south is ten times better than here in the North. And the cleanliness there: do you know they wash almost every day? Noblemen and blacksmith alike."

"Every day?" Elain's small voice piped up from between them.

"Yes." Feyre smiled, "And the soaps, my gods—" She cut off with a groan, "They have them for your hair too. And they smell like heaven and are soft as silk."

Nesta hummed at the image, and Feyre couldn't help but shiver from the memory of something far different than bathing.

To be able to leave the cold harshness of the North was one thing, but to see her friends again.

To see him again.

Feyre didn't know if Rhysand could accept her after she rejected his proposal. But she knew with all her heart Mor would not send them away.

Then there was a loud knock on the door. And everyone, include Feyre, jumped in surprise.

"It's alright," she hushed, "That must be the maid signaling the guards are about to change."

Her sisters nodded, as Feyre deftly exited the bed. She was already dressed in her fighting leathers; having smuggled them from the South.

Feyre had hid them a loose floor-board in her room until this very night. She had been saving for this moment.

"Grab your packs," Feyre said as she tip-toed to the door, "This may be our chance."

She gave Nesta and Elain one final nod. Already their packs in hand just as Feyre opened the door.

But it was not Feyre's trusted maid on the other side.

"Lady Feyre," two guards stood at the door. Both of them wearing rather grim expressions as they beheld her attire. "Going somewhere?"

Feyre balked slightly. But she quickly regained herself, "I wanted a mid-night stroll. And my new gift needed breaking in."

Both the guard's brows rose; their expressions alone telling Feyre just exactly they thought of a woman owning fighting leathers.

"Either way, the King wishes to see you. Now."

"So late? Whatever the reason?" Feyre feigned her shock easily. Thankfully Elian and Nesta were out of sight behind the door, but she pressed herself closer in the gap anyhow.

"The King will tell you when you get there."

Feyre pressed her lips together. If she left now, that meant the window of their escape was that much slimmer.

"It will be quick," the other said with firmness.

"Let's get going then." Feyre gave her sisters one last glance. Before she closed the door and followed the King's guards for the last time.

As Feyre gulped in the darkened hallways, she told herself everything was alright. The would sometimes call her for secret meetings without the rest of the Lords present.

But she still got the unwavering feeling that something was the matter.

Feyre shouldn't have been so brazen with the King earlier that day. She was an idiot to have her pride get the best of her.

But she couldn't take their judgment and their sneers any longer.

So when the guards parted the throne rooms doors, Feyre wore nothing but her true skin as she faced the King one last time. No more cowering or hiding.

She would leave the King knowing she was not his temptress, but a woman capable of making her own decisions.

As Feyre strode to the throne, the room was lit with lanterns and candles. But the remaining darkness made the huge space seem endless. She stopped at the foot of the dais.

The King angled his slimy eyes to her.

"You summoned me," she said, not exactly hiding her distaste as the King surveyed her.

"What skin are you wearing, my flower?" he said, "I'm afraid this one is unapproved by me."

Feyre wavered before telling him, but she wanted to leave as nothing but herself, "This is my real form." She was surprised by the strength the words gave.

The King stroked his chin, "My, how could we have known such a plain face lay underneath all along?"

Feyre stilled as the two guards behind her chuckled. But all she said was, "What is it you called me for?"

"I wanted you to see an intruder."

"Why?"

"You'll see."

Her blood ran cold at his tone alone.

In that same instant, the doors broke open, and a body was drug in by two guards.

Whoever this prisoner was, he appeared unconscious, evidenced by his limp head as they dropped him onto the steps.

"We've had him for a while now," The King smiled, "But I decided since you were about to flee the city tonight, you would want to see him before you go." God's help her. He knew. "Behold Feyre, your Prince."

She pivoted slowly. But the horror must have been stark on her face as a guard hauled the prisoner onto his back. And even if she couldn't see his face, Feyre would have recognized those fighting leathers anywhere.

Cassian.

The guards slapped him starkly awake. Feyre winced as he groaned into lucidness.

But as he struggled to rise, it was not Cassian that faced to the King with a sneer.

No, this person, Feyre knew beyond her very self as she went absolutely still. She saw that face in her dreams; felt his phantom body wrapped around hers only to wake up alone.

"Are you shocked, Feyre?" The King chuckled at her reaction. "Because Rhysand has come here, for you."

She could do nothing but stare as she drank in Rhys' form. And the sight was far from a hopeful one.

The once proud Prince she had once known, now looked weak and lethargic. His hair was matted with dirt and sweat. His face was badly bruised; his skin far from luminous. It made Feyre's chest ache to see him in such a state.

And then Feyre's heart felt truly empty when she saw the iron chains bound on his ankles. She felt their dark, slithering power twining around Rhysand's magic and nearly choking out her own.

The King only went on, "I was about to launch war to take his remaining kingdom with force. But now I can kill their Prince and be done with it."

"No!" Feyre rushed forward, but two guards came to restrain her. The King cocked his head like he was confused.

"Why do you care for him so? He has done nothing but put you in danger these past weeks."

"You have me now," she pled, "My powers can give you all the world's kingdoms without casualty, and keep them. Just let him live."

"You assume I want your help. Why should I trust the word of a traitor?" The King's attention landed to Rhysand.

She opened her mouth to refute, but Feyre caught the glint of metal against Rhysand's chest.

Her ring.

It hung on a golden chain there. Her chest burned to know it had been so close to his heart this whole time. Now it served as nothing but proof of her treachery.

"Yes Feyre," the King grinned as she went white, "You think my numerous spies haven't told me of your time abroad? How do you think we anticipated Rhysand so easily? Because I expected him to come for you."

Feyre blinked at the reveal. But she had no answer.

She was secretly searching for the King's mind with her magic. Even if Rhysand could not use his, Feyre would use any last chance to convince them free.

But a dark chuckle only raked down her spine.

Just as her siren grappled for the King's thoughts, something pushed her out.

' _That won't work,_ Feyre darling," The King said through her mind, and her eyes flew open, "You're not the only one with magic."

Feyre felt the fear run palpable in her veins; it was screaming at her to run. And it must have been plain on her face as the King purred lower,

"It's no use, my flower. You cannot run," the King called, "You cannot overpower me nor outsmart me. I've been on this world much longer than you." He grinned when Feyre glanced to Rhys.

"There's a reason Rhys made that bargain with you," The King said, "He had to find a way to break you from my hold. My spells are specific. And it actually worked! But I never expected it to play out so marvelously for me in the end."

"What do you want?"

"Isn't it obvious? I want the High Lord of the Night Court dead."

She balked at the pure darkness in the King's voice, and she knew his goal.

Feyre, even if she hadn't controlled his thoughts, had caught a glimpse of the King's intentions, and she saw how he only wanted to wreak havoc and death across their world.

It didn't matter what stood in their way, it would only end in their eventual destruction.

And Feyre and Rhys had given right into his hand.

"You can come out now," The King suddenly called. It was then a figure slunk from the side of the room. Feyre's eyes narrowed to see who had joined the King's side.

"You!" She pulled and fought against the guards as she sneered at Tamlin. She tried probing his mind to let her go, but it was as sealed tight as the Kings.

Tamlin only gave her a bored stare, "Hello, _Feyre darling_."

"You don't remember him, my flower. But Tamlin knows you beyond his work for me these past weeks," The King smiled as Tamlin puffed up his chest, "But that was long time ago. And you turned against him, as well."

Feyre didn't answer. Clearly the King was delusional in this conjuring. But Feyre still had to figure out a way to set her and Rhys free before the King's madness got the both of them killed.

"You don't remember?" The King merely twirled his hand between her and Tamlin. "There was a time when you were to be Tam's wife, dear Feyre. Centuries ago, when he plucked you from humanity. Only to have your eventual mate steal you away."

Her blood stilled at that word.

It was a long since forgotten legend of mates between magical creatures. They were all since extinct from the eons. But they were the very descends Feyre's magic came from.

But apparently the King had her and Rhys caught up in their history.

But she still kept her stare leveled on the King. "You're insane."

"Perhaps," the King cooed, "But your beloved can attest to my word. Can't you Rhys?"

She visibly wavered as Feyre glanced to the very man. Rhysand's chest barely rose with breath. But he would not look to her.

"Haven't you wondered how he has kept his kingdom from me all these years? Rhysand had to pay like the rest of them. But his payment was not like the rest." The King smiled. "He gave me you."

She felt her body go loose.

But Rhysand finally let out a low snarl, "You bastard." The King gave a stark laugh as Tamlin smiled.

But Feyre could not move; or even speak.

"Not only were you once Rhysand's mate, Feyre," The King paused with a terrible smirk, "But you were once his High Lady."

Feyre felt all blood drain from her face.

She knew the King had to be truly mad; but there was an echo of truth as Rhysand's shoulders heaved. And her throat went thick. "Rhys?" she didn't know what her face shone.

He did not answer.

"You see, ages ago, this world was split into seven," The King spun on, "Each court was governed their High Lord. I had my own measly slice separate from them and their squabbles. But I yearned for more."

Feyre was only distantly listening. Because she couldn't tear her eyes from Rhys; even if he kept his face from her.

Could any of it be true?

High Lady.

Mates.

She searched for the truth within herself. And her soul echoed its answer.

Feyre recoiled against the thought: that she and Rhys could have ever shared a history. But her mind spun back to their conversations….

She and Rhysand had always had an unspeakable connection: a bond that perhaps wasn't weeks in the making.

But centuries.

"I almost succeeded too," The King paused as Feyre blinked back into focus, "But at the fringe of battle against my enemy, just when my forces were close to victory, I was offered an unsurpassed deal."

Rhysand's head bowed. Feyre turned her eyes back to the King. "You, Feyre," he revealed.

Her legs felt like they would give out from shock, but the guards held fast. Tamlin kept his hateful gaze on Rhys.

"Yes, Feyre," The King sang, "Just like these past months, when you chose to sacrifice yourself for your beloved and his people. You have done so before. And Rhysand let you, both times."

Feyre thought her heart would give out. Rhysand fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. The King only went on,

"I accepted your bargain those centuries past: The eternal servitude of the High Lady of the Night Court was sure to come in handy. Even if Rhysand and his kingdom remained alive and well, I knew it would tear him apart to let you go. But you were unwavering in your decision; so adamant to protect your mate from harm."

Her stomach turned over itself. Feyre swore it was all a terrible nightmare the King was revealing.

But deep down, she knew it all to be true.

"Why can't I remember?" she murmured. Rhysand gave a great breath; but remained silent.

"Rhys never told you?" The King quirked, "I suppose he was too racked with guilt to explain it. But he wiped your mind before you left. I suppose he wanted to give you a new start at life, even if he couldn't have the same."

Her whole body started to tremor; as if her power was murmuring in response. She slowly beheld the man beside her, "Is it true?" was all she could ask. Rhysand only blinked in surrender.

"I'm so sorry, Feyre. For everything—"

The King snapped his fingers and Rhysand went silent. She gawked before Feyre realized the King had taken his voice with unknown power.

"Not yet Rhys," the King tsked, "We haven't told Feyre the ending."

The guards suddenly hauled Rhys to his feet. He barely stood with a groan, and the iron chains clanked around his ankles. She almost retched at their terrible reek of power.

And Feyre knew neither of them were going to leave that throne room alive. But the King kept talking,

"After the deal was struck," The King looked down upon them, "Rhys went mad during the centuries from shame. One day, he couldn't take it. He begged me to set you free, Feyre; offering anything as payment. I obliged."

"So I demanded he hand over his dark magic for you," he continued, "And I left him with nothing but hatred and despair to remember me by."

She let out a low snarl the same time Rhys did. The King looked nothing but entertained by it.

"But what Rhysand didn't' realize, was I returned his High Lady not as she once was, but reborn. I gave you your siren, Feyre."

The room went still. Tamlin looked unsettled as he shifted on his feet. Feyre hardly knew she was still breathing. And Rhys….

"Stop this," he groaned. Feyre didn't have enough energy to look at the anguish she heard in his voice. And still, those enchanted iron shackles held fast.

And the King kept his onslaught of words, "The siren I twined around your heart made it impossible to love, Feyre. Even Rhys. But he did anyways. And the more your mate tried to tame your siren, the more it killed its' host."

The King almost looked almost sympathetic as he continued,

"You were dying Feyre. And it destroyed Rhysand to wipe your mind with his remaining powers and place you to that northern family," The King gave a mock pout, "But he knew if you stayed with him, you would perish. And if you _remembered_ him; you would always feel that emptiness inside. So he had no choice but to let you go."

Feyre finally dropped to her knees. Rhysand bowed over in agony. The King kept up the torture.

"Rhys drove himself into despair after that. He rejected everything you once gave your life for. His throne and his people fell away to the centuries. Rhysand didn't care. If you weren't by his side, he didn't want any of it. And so, I took the world he had once kept from me."

The King descended the steps as Rhysand rocked back to his heels; defeated. "But sadly, the High Lord of the Night Court couldn't hide forever."

Feyre's ears pricked as Tamlin gave a sneer. Rhysand only angled his head to the King.

"Then those six years ago," the King said lower, "When he found you starving and desolate after your foster family died, Feyre, your mate made me a final bargain."

She wanted to clutch her stomach to stop from heaving. That vision of her in the slums Rhys had shown her had was not dream at all.

But a memory.

The King strode to her, "So Rhys, with nothing but the coin you stole for him, pled that I take you from destitution. But gold was not enough. I demanded the ultimate payment."

Feyre's chest stopped taking air. Tamlin smiled as Rhysand pressed his eyes shut.

"I broke your bond," The King rumbled, "The magic was so powerful it would feed me for an eternity. And I could live knowing I had finally taken everything from the Prince of Darkness."

Feyre let the words settle around them as she fought against the guards. But the King only drew nearer.

"Leave her be," Rhysand pled from across her room. The King stopped only inches from her face; his face full of satisfaction.

She only raised her eyes to the King with absolute hatred, "Why?" was all she demanded, for she was left numb from it all.

The King ran a thumb along her face. Rhysand let out a low snarl that skittered along her bones. But she just stared at the man who had nearly drained the life from her. But not yet.

"Why?" The King murmured to her, "Your mate had the rarest thing in the world. A High Lady to share the spoils of his fortunes with. But he let you give yourself up for _his_ people. He was too weak to do it himself. And for that, he must pay."

Feyre could only watch as the King spun back to Rhysand. But he remained still as stone.

"You will pay for every shred of pain you inflicted," she called. "Even if I have to kill you myself."

The King paused to glance to her. "There's that Fae temper," The King smiled to Rhys, "You always loved that spark inside of your mate. Is that why you came crawling back to steal her again?"

Her ears burned to hear it. But Rhysand only clenched his jaw. Feyre didn't know if her chest was numbing from so many emotions or lack thereof.

"Now Rhys continues to try and have it all," the King said, "And I continue to be slighted. That will all be erected today." The King motioned Tamlin to come forward.

Feyre scowled as the spy strode right toward her. And then Tamlin's hands replaced the guards' around her arms.

"Get off me!" She tried to retch herself free. Tamlin only clamped down harder.

"Let her go!" Rhysand roared against his own binding. The King gave a sad smile,

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Rhys. Tam wants his bride back. And I am one to pay my debts."

Feyre jolted at the words, but Tamlin's hold on her was even stronger than the guards.

"As promised for his assistance," The King tilted his head to Rhys, "I also promised Tamlin I would kill Feyre's mate. So he would never worry about her being taken ever again." Then the King pulled out a slender dagger.

"NO!" Feyre screamed, trying to heave from Tamlin's iron hold. Rhysand's eyes fell to her.

"I have one last bargain," Rhys finally said. Feyre blinked at his violet stare, not sure if she was truly alive or already in hell when Rhys turned to the King, "Let Feyre be the one to take my life."

The King cackled, as her heart halted. "You want Feyre to kill you?" he pondered it, "I must admit, that is something I'd like to see."

"No, Rhys," she moaned. But he kept his violet stare to the King.

"If she does, then Feyre goes free," Rhys said, "No more siren; and no more Tamlin." His eyes were pure steel on the King.

Feyre shook and kicked, but Tamlin clinched harder. But she kept fighting.

The King hummed at the offer. "Done." He announced. Tamlin let loose a snarl as she went absolutely slack.

"You promised Feyre was to be mine!" He yanked her closer, but with a snap of the King's fingers, Feyre was suddenly free.

She pivoted to see Tamlin's hands straining; frozen in the air against whatever magic the King held. But the King kept his attention to her.

"Well?" the King cooed, "Your Rhys offers one last deal for freedom, Feyre. Will you accept it?"

The guards forced Rhys to his knees as her body went lax. But her hands really started to shake when he tilted his face to her: his violet eyes holding nothing but pure submission.

"Rhys," she whimpered, but someone was hauling her forward. The King.

Tears were already streaming down her face when the King slipped the blade to her hands, "I can't."

"I know," Rhys hushed with a grim smile. "Just do this one last favor for me, love. And I promise everything will be alright."

Feyre's chest heaved at the softness in his voice. Her arms felt like gelatin, her hands frozen around the hilt of the blade. But cold hands were forcing the steel downward.

"I'm afraid it's the only way," Rhys murmured. She shakily looked down upon the man that had caused so many feelings inside her. Through quarrel and everything afterwards, one feeling still remained.

Feyre wanted to shout at Rhys to fight back; to never accept death when they could finally be together. But she knew what his reply would be: Rhysand could not live in a world that she was not free in.

He seemed to read her very thoughts as he angled his head higher, "Save yourself for once, Feyre. It's my final wish in this life."

"Please," she shuddered to behold the man in front of her. And still, in the whirlwind of emotion that spun around her heart: confusion and anger.

One remained, undiminished.

Rhysand nodded; reading it all on her face; or her soul itself. That Feyre loved him with all her heart, and she would be utterly broken without him.

All he said was, "I'm so sorry. For everything. I never could stop loving you. I never will."

Feyre wholly broke apart at the words. But her voice wouldn't work so she could tell him the same.

He gave her a grim smile; so much emotion ridden in those violet eyes, that Feyre sobbed out loud.

The King merely pushed the dagger until it pressed against the tan skin of his neck. And Rhysand allowed it, "I love you," he said.

Feyre clenched her eyes shut; trying to memorize the sound of his voice. Because no matter how her siren had fought, or even how the King or Tamlin plotted, Feyre couldn't help but lov Rhys with all her heart.

And he needed to know it.

"I love you," she breathed; the steel shaking in her grasp. The King scoffed, but Rhysand smiled.

Actually, smiled as Feyre was about to take his life.

"That's all I needed to hear." Rhys came to steady the blade in Feyre's hands. And her lips wobbled. "Do this for yourself, Feyre."

Rhys pressed the edge harder into himself, but her muscles tremored in refusal.

She managed a glance to the men beside her. The King who had played them both like puppets. And Tamlin, who would rather align himself with a madman for vengeance; rather than forgive Rhys and help make their world become just a bit better.

And finally, Feyre beheld the man kneeling before her. Her vison was blurry with tears. But she blinked back to see his total willingness, even then, to give everything for her.

And it broke whatever part of Feyre was left.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Rhys closed his eyes in wait, just like on that field when he had proposed to Feyre.

She realized at that moment, how he had always tried to show her the amount of love he had. But Feyre had been too frightened to truly see it.

Because deep down, she remembered their life before. It was foggy, but still, the emotions remained. She had been happy; so breathtakingly joyous Feyre could not let Rhysand throw everything away in her name.

Not again.

So even if her mate was willing to give the greatest payment for her freedom, Feyre would not let him. Not when they were so close to being together.

So instead of slipping that dagger against Rhysand's throat, and perhaps ending both their agony, she remembered what he had once told her.

There would always be shadow in the world. But despite what Rhysand thought of himself, that darkness was not him.

And she knew more than anything, that they could bring a sliver of light to this world. First Feyre would kill the King of his crimes. Then she would hold Tamlin accountable for his own.

So Feyre did not look at her target as she turned that dagger; they could not know what she was thinking as she plunged the blade directly into the King's chest.

Right through his blackened his heart.

It was so fast. In one second Feyre was standing upright, looking at the King as he numbly clutched his wound.

And then she was falling.

She dimly heard a roar as the room fell away. But someone caught her head before it could hit the marble floor.

Feyre glanced sideways to see Tamlin fleeing out of the throne room. There was the sound of clashing and groaning, and Feyre realized someone was fighting the remaining guards.

She felt the rush of pain in her chest with each breath she took. But the source of that burning, she knew not. It ached as someone cradled her into their lap a moment later.

"Feyre," a dark voice called. But she couldn't tear her eyes from the King that lay limp beside her.

The King's chest bled where the blade still stuck out. It oozed onto the ground before pooling. And even as hands fussed over her, begging her to stay awake, Feyre knew what had to happen.

"Keep your eyes open, Feyre." That same velvet voice ordered; the only thing she could hold onto; the only thing that kept her awake.

"I can't stay," Feyre murmured. Her voice was barely a hush in the wind but she felt it. She was waning.

She could feel death so close. It was cold, pulling her down to that depth. Calling her from the warmth into the void.

"No, Feyre!" she felt wet tears fall onto her face, "You can't leave me again."  
She smiled as strong arms scooped her from the cold tile. It was then she finally understood who it was; from touch alone.

"Don't worry," she said to Rhys. Something close to a sob ratcheted from his chest as Feyre placed her hand against his cheek, "We will meet again." Feyre didn't know the words exact truth, but her soul willed them so.

"I can't wait that long," his voice broke as he gazed down at her. And even starved and dirty, Feyre knew his face to be the most beautiful sight. She was happy it would be her last.

"You can." She smiled wider as Feyre felt herself losing grip. With each word, she lost more of herself to that darkness.

"Don't you dare," Rhys gritted. And as Feyre struggled to keep wakefulness, she heard him add more softly, "I've loved you for a thousand years, Feyre. And I will never stop loving you even when this world turns into ash. But right now, you need to fight."

And that was the last thing Feyre heard before everything went black.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I think she's waking?" a rough voice broke through the void. But all Feyre could see was darkness. Even if there was warmth in the air, soft and inviting, she was too tired to move or even speak.

"By the Gods', Cassian, give her some room, please," A hard-sounding female answered, "Aren't you supposed to be steering this dinky boat anyhow?"

"That's what first mates are for, Amren." That same rough voice answered, "And for the record, this is a magnificent vessel, not some dinky boat. I'd appreciate an apology."

"Hush, all of you," a third person said, "Rhysand, she's gaining consciousness."

And the next person that spoke was nothing like the rest.

"Feyre, can you hear me?" This voice was smooth richness, calling to her from the dark.

And as she finally woke, she was met with violet eyes. They were full of emotion as they gazed down at her.

"Thank the seas, you're alright," The owner of the voice smiled. And even if his face was wrought with emotion, he had to be the most beautiful man she'd ever seen.

"Do I know you?" Feyre glanced to her surroundings, only to find weathered wood plank on every surface; floor and ceiling alike.

"Feyre?"

She shook her head as she sat upright. And all joy that had once been on that handsome face disappeared when she blinked in confusion.

"Take it easy," he said, "You're only just healing."

"I'm sorry but—" Feyre cut herself off as she looked to the rest of the faces. And she had to blink twice.

There were three other people waiting with widened eyes. And Feyre swore her vision had been heightened.

Her sight was too clear. Feyre could see every speck of dust in the air. Same with her hearing; she could sense the very blood rushing through their veins.

She sat up straighter, "Where am I?"

"You're on a ship heading to the southern continent." The only female in the room answered; her strange silver eyes observing Feyre a bit too warily. The two men in the corner wavered to that first one.

The very man who was looking at Feyre like she had sprouted horns.

"A ship?" she murmured to herself. So that's why the room kept moving. Feyre braced herself against the wall as they went over a huge swell, "Why are we going to the Night Court?"

"Try to remain still," That first male said. He even sought to touch her hand, but Feyre flinched away.

And the pain that crossed his features: it was as if she had slapped him.

"You've suffered a great strain, Feyre." The female added, "But everything you are seeing and feeling is normal."

"What's happened to me?" Feyre surveyed her body. It felt so foreign to her; and as she looked to her hands and arms, they seemed elongated; her skin impossibly smooth.

But none of that mattered when Feyre beheld the black inked along her left palm.

A tattoo of a swirling eye was etched from her hand up her arm. She might have thought it beautiful if Feyre could remember how it had got there.

But before anyone could say anything else, the door creaked open. And Feyre thanked the Gods it was someone she knew.

"Nesta?" Feyre cried as her sister parted through the three strangers. Still, that handsome male remained on the end of Feyre's bed. But he stood as soon as Nesta arrived.

"Thank you for staying with her," Nesta said quietly. He gave a solemn nod, joining the other bodies on the side of the room.

"I'm so glad you're alight," her sister gushed before pulling Feyre into a hug. But her usually strong sister felt frail in her arms.

"What's happening? I feel strange."

Nesta pulled back, "I suppose you should. But everything's fine, you've just gone under a…change is all."

"But why are we sailing to the southern continent?" Feyre said quieter. Her attention fell to the four silent strangers behind her. "How did we ever escape the King?"

Nesta pressed her lips together, "You don't remember?"

Feyre shook her head; but her eyes must have told Nesta of the creeping hysteria that was about to burst. Because Nesta turned to the others that next second.

"Could Feyre and I have some privacy?" Nesta said not too sweetly. Everyone in the room shifted on their feet.

Everyone except the man who Feyre had awoken too. He was utterly unmoving as he stared wide-eyed at her. He had never taken his gaze from Feyre, since the moment she had.

And it was unnerving to say the least.

"Please." Nesta said tightly to the group; a word not usually in her vocabulary. Everyone murmured their answers as they slowly ushered out of the tiny room.

But one figure remained.

"Rhysand," Nesta said softer to that dark male, "Just a moment."

His violet eyes finally blinked elsewhere, and she might have thought him angry, "Just tell me when she remembers anything."

He turned, closing the door a bit too gently. But Feyre had no time to ponder it before Nesta looked to her, "I'm sorry if they overwhelmed you. Tell me, what can you remember?"

Feyre paused, "I remember, pain. I remember wanting to leave the North. But before that, I recall nothing else. Apart from our lives in the palace."

"Well, I have to tell you that a lot happened in the past weeks."

"Is Elain here?"

Nesta nodded, "She's above deck since coming below seems to make her sea sickness worse. But she'll be ecstatic to know you're awake."

"How long have we been sailing?"

"Nearly two weeks."

"Who were those people?"

Nesta hesitated, "That can wait for later. I want to know how you're feeling."

"I'm fine health wise," Feyre paused, trying to gather the words to explain, "Am I insane thinking I am not myself? And that man, Rhysand, you called him—" The name sounded thick on her tongue. "It seemed as though he knew me well."

"I can attend that your appearance is…different, yes. But as to your relationship to Rhys, I cannot. What I do know is you became close during your time in the south. I wouldn't have trusted him an inch if he hadn't saved your life."

"How? If I don't remember," Feyre's voice inched higher as she glanced downward. The tattooed eye on her palm seemed to mock her.

"It's alright," Nesta took her arms, "Just tell me what you can. Even if its miniscule. Perhaps it will help me fill in the gaps."

"I—I had magic," Feyre started. Nesta squeezed her shoulders, "I could shapeshift. And because of that, the King took me as his ward. I served him."

"Good. Do you remember anything else?"

"I remember he kept me close. He made me force people to his side. Even if I didn't want to, he would guilt me into it."

"That's right," Nesta said, "And because of that, Rhysand asked you to his kingdom."

"He did?"

"You went to his continent, and returned different," Nesta said, "One night you came to Elain and I, saying we were leaving. But the King summoned you one last time before we could. That was when it all…happened."

"The King threatened me," Feyre said suddenly, a flicker of recollection allowing the tiny concession, "He said if I didn't return, everyone I cared for would die."

"The King threatened you?" Nesta's asked forcefully. "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"If I did, I was afraid you and Elain might come to harm. That—Rhysand," Feyre forced the name through her lips, "That he would be killed as well."

"Feyre—" Nesta actually trembled as she pulled her close, "What you went through for us; in the city and with serving the King, I thought you wanted it. But now we see how much we took advantage. So we will help you get through this. Whatever that may be."

"But what if I can't get through this," Feyre met her sisters gaze, and saw real fear there, "I can't remember the past months of my life. My body is not my own. And I'm—I'm terrified I never will become myself again."

Nesta pressed her lips together. "I'm just thankful that Rhysand was there for you when we were not." She pulled her close, "Perhaps it's a gift, your amnesia and this change. Now you never have to use that siren ever again."

"That's the thing," Feyre murmured, "I can't feel my magic anymore. I think it's—gone."

The siren she remembered driving Feyre since birth was now left empty in her chest; right next to the wound there.

All that was left was an insidious tattoo on her hand; a strange different body, yet her same soul trapped inside.

Feyre swallowed the sudden bile at that thought. That she was truly empty now. No magic and no memories of a life lived.

Nesta must have read the terror in Feyre's eyes as she hushed, "Right now, I think rest will do you the most good."

She nodded; finding comfort in her sister's hardened gaze. But Feyre doubted anything would cure the barrenness she felt deep in her soul.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The days spun into one another as Feyre slowly got used to her new form. Without her siren, she was left uneasy remaining in one face. Trapped, as she had said before.

The ship had no mirror, so Feyre's couldn't see all the new changes her sisters claimed. But Feyre saw it in their eyes.

She was far from her old self. No masks to conceal her darker skin or strange hair, so Feyre was left with one face, and one body.

Even if it was ever stronger and sleeker than her old one. Or her features somehow more breathtaking than her siren could ever create…Feyre ached for her old body and magic to return.

But she doubted such a miracle would ever be granted.

The King was gone. And with it, Feyre's monetary source to support her family. Furthermore, she and her sisters were traitors in the North's eyes. That was why they were currently fleeing to the south on a stranger's ship.

The thoughts never ceased to spin around her head while she lay in bed. How the King died, if he felt pain or went in peace. No one would tell Feyre the details, but she sensed something sinister resided in his murder.

But eventually one day, Elain came to Feyre's room and suggested they take a walk out on deck to get the breeze back on her face; if not release the worries that were plaguing her.

Feyre hurriedly agreed, eager to get out of the stuffy captain's quarters and out of that bed. Including her sister's constant fussing.

They were absolutely relentless; asking Feyre if she had enough books to keep her occupied, or food to keep her full. She only saw one other face enter her quarters.

The Captain named Cassian, had been more than attentive to Feyre's needs. Perhaps more so than her own sisters.

Nesta had tried to keeping Feyre secluded for comfort and sanity, but Cassian had insisted he bring Feyre her meals each day.

She had come to appreciate his roguish charm during their short conversations. Feyre always tried to steer towards what had happened in that throne room before things went black. But Cassian only dodged each answer.

So Feyre let Elain drag her out of bed and on deck. Nesta joined them from the helm as soon as she saw Feyre appear from the Captain's quarters.

They walked the perimeter of the huge boat; the crew mostly keeping to themselves. But after a few laps around the railing, the three sisters were met with a smiling face.

"Hello, Feyre," Cassian greeted with a firm bow. "You're looking better day by day."

"Thank you."

"Nesta, its lovely to see you as always," Cassian said rather mischievously. Her eldest sister merely rolled her eyes as Elain hid her giggle.

"So how are you feeling?" Cassian asked Feyre.

"Better I suppose. But I have a few questions for Rhysand. About that last day we spent in the North? Is it possible to see him?"

Cassian's eyes went a bit wide, but Nesta answered before he could. "We can answer your questions, Feyre. What do you want to know?"

"I appreciate everyone's willingness to help," Feyre said, "But no one has been able to tell me the last minutes I spent with the King. Since Rhysand was the only one there, I figured he'd be the best one."

"Well," Elain hesitated, "Its natural for you to want answers, but we better let Rhysand to remain alone for a while."

"Why?"

Nesta stroked her shoulder, "You haven't had enough time to acclimate. Give it time."

Feyre stopped walking, "What are you not telling me?" She looked to the three of them. Elain bit her lip just as Nesta opened her mouth to speak.

But it was Cassian who blurted, "Rhysand left."

"What?"

Nesta shot Cassian a stern look as Elain rushed, "We wanted to tell you when the time was right."

"And when was that going to be?" Feyre sputtered.

Everyone were suddenly silent. And Feyre herself went still with understanding, "It's because of me, isn't it?"

"Don't blame yourself." Elain soothed.

"Elain's right, Feyre," Cassian said, "The King was an absolute mad man. He threatened not just you, but everyone you loved. Rhysand needs time to sort a few things out."

Nesta hit the pirate over the head with a sudden slap, "Can you keep your mouth shut for even a second?"

Feyre paused between them, "What exactly happened in that throne room?"

Nesta remained silent. But Cassian wavered.

"Cassian? Where is Rhysand?" Feyre pointed her eyes at the pirate Captain since he looked like the best target. He looked between the three sisters; wincing as Nesta raised her brows.

"I'm sorry," he grimaced. "Rhysand left shortly after you woke with your memory loss. He ordered us to head to a little group of inhabited islands, claiming he had to leave the ship. We only just dropped him off."

She felt her muscles seize. "And you just left him there. Alone?"

"I'm sure he will be alright—"Nesta started, but Feyre didn't hear the rest.

She was already racing up the steps; her new legs allowing Feyre to reach the helm in mere seconds.

She dimly heard Nesta calling from lower deck, but Feyre didn't listen as she found Azriel and Amren navigating the great ship. When they saw Feyre they turned in shock.

"Feyre?" Azriel said, "I didn't know you were up and around."

"We need to go back," Feyre said.

"What's this now?" Amren joined the conversation, the stern woman placing hands on her hips. Feyre only continued.

"We need to turn the ship around," she repeated, "Rhysand cannot be left alone to an island. I seek answers, and he's the only one who has gone through what I have."

Amren looked rarely sympathetic. "He ordered us to leave him be. We're nearly to the Night Court anyhow. There we can get you properly healed. We still don't fully understand what your body has gone under."

Feyre shook her head, "The healing I seek is with Rhysand."

"He doesn't want to be found, Feyre," Azriel added, "It's unlikely any of us would be able to reach him until he wants us to."

"None of you may not be able to find him. But I think I can."

"It's no use," Cassian and her sisters had only just caught up, "After you woke up with amnesia, Rhysand went into this dark state of mind. None of us could pull him from it. Maybe it's best he has time away."

"But it's not the best this way," Feyre pled, "I need to know what we underwent together. My body can't start to heal before my mind gets the chance."

Amren shook her head, "I understand, but we all think Rhys fixes to stay away for a great while. Best leave him to it."

"Just wait until we can get you to a healer to see about the change you've taken on," Elain eased, "And once you're recovered we'll find him."

Feyre didn't bother listening to any of them. She was already climbing the ship's rail. There was no time for anyone to grasp what she was doing before Feyre dove straight into the ocean.

The drop had been almost twenty feet from the top, but this new form didn't mind in the least. Its' tireless muscles cut through the waves like butter before Feyre could even blink.

Because if they wouldn't turn the boat around, then Feyre would find Rhys herself.

She didn't know exactly how, but whatever hollowness she was feeling inside her chest was not emptiness, but perhaps a clue to a time long since past.

And there was only one way to find out the answers she needed.

Feyre knew one thing, she would not find them on that ship. They rested with the one man who had been with her in those final moments.

Feyre briefly looked back to who she left on that boat; hearing their calls for her to return. But she was already moving underwater and out of sight.

All Feyre had to do follow that soft song the water was singing; this strange; new body giving its quiet reply.

And Feyre would find her answers.

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She didn't let her body rest as Feyre swam further and further. This new unknown form allowed her to go and go; splitting through the ocean without need for breath.

Feyre didn't know how long she went on like that. It could have been mere miles or hundreds of them.

But she only paused when she felt sand underneath her toes.

Her senses alone led Feyre to a tiny island. Palm trees sprawled, as the earth rose up and up to a single towering peak. She didn't even pause before trudging up the beach.

"Hello?" Feyre called. But there was no answer as she looked between the choking jungle's foliage.

There was no sign of footprints or inhabitants. But she shook off the strain in her legs and shoulders, and aimed further into the forest.

Cassian had said that Rhysand went into a dark place. And by the look of the untouched wilderness, this was the perfect place to dive into that void; never to resurface.

She didn't know how long she hiked; weaving through plants and water alike. And then Feyre saw it: a tiny shack assembled between two trees.

It was barely standing, but the path to front of the door was well-trodden. And something within it murmured recognition.

Rhysand.

Her heart surged with relief. She had found him.

But as her eyes settled to the weather worn door, another feeling shuddered deep inside Feyre.

It bore similar paintings to what she sometimes remembered scribbling in her sketch book.

Feyre recognized this place.

Even though she couldn't remember ever being there before.

There was a bench made from drift wood that looked familiar. Perhaps Feyre had read there while enjoying the warmth of the sun.

Next to it, two pots that might not have been the most beautiful to look at, but perhaps made with care all the same, ushered in more memories. All of a past life lived.

And then Feyre saw the crest carved into the door.

It was weathered from rain and wind. But it was clear enough.

Wings crossed with a triton.

She sucked in a breath, as thousands of memories flooded back to her. There were so many that she couldn't hold on to a single one before they flew away.

But she managed to hold onto one when she crossed the threshold.

Feyre looked to the tiny but well used stove, over to the basin of water stuffed next to it. There was a cup left on the counter. Tiny blue waves were painted along the rim.

She couldn't help but drag her fingers along the smooth porcelain. It was her own work; made with a much steadier hand than she had now.

Feyre glanced to the rest of the living area. And what she saw on the far wall made her breath catch.

Paintings.

They were everywhere. Some little, some large as they took up most of the wall. But every one of them bore a same style.

She had seen this artist before. In a dream.

Feyre hardly knew she was crying before she felt silent tears roll down her cheeks.

One piece stood out more than all the rest. It was different; not abstract but showing an actual figure in the deep strokes.

The colors of such gave a much darker message; menacing in its broad swipes. Deep blues, black and violets told of a more serious tone.

Feyre wiped her eyes to trace the subject's strong back. Even if it was turned to her, she knew him.

His hair was a mess of black and blue. And peaking from beneath the thick strands were elegantly pointed ears. Feyre's attention lingered there before moving on.

Because the centerpiece of the painting were the subject's huge, dark, beautiful wings.

His shoulders were slouched from the weight of them. They were tucked neatly as the light caught the smoothened edges.

She moved her fingers over that very place, and a shiver shot down her spine.

As Feyre finally managed to tear herself from the painting, she saw the only other pieces of furniture in the room. A couch; a bed.

And in the corner, a heaping bookshelf.

It was covered in dust as she came closer, but each self was filled to the brim with the same leather-bound books. No not books at all, as Feyre pulled one from its confines…

Journals.

Feyre didn't know if she had any right to, but she couldn't help as she hesitantly opened one.

The binding cracked in protest; the pages covered in even more dust. But as Feyre blew away the debris, she did not find any strong male script at all.

But her own.

And Feyre knew her heart had stopped beating as she read the date inscribed.

 _12-21-1321_

Feyre's birthday.

From nearly a century ago.

"Feyre?"

She spun to see Rhysand standing in the threshold. She deftly hid the journal behind her back,

"Rhys."

"What are you doing here?"

He shifted his feet, and she couldn't help but soak up his form. He looked different than she remembered.

His chest was broader, his torso longer and muscles more defined. And his features were more breathtaking than ever.

He was dripping with sweat, and some sort of carcass was heaped over his shoulder.

The color of his skin was darker. His hair cut shorter, if not haphazardly so by himself.

But one feature stood out to Feyre beyond everything else.

Because underneath his blue-black hair shone delicately pointed ears.

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	14. Chapter 14

**A/N This chapter might be a lot. Beginning with similarities with ACOWAR. But this remains an alternative universe. Just one where the war didn't end in Feysand's victory, but something else. Hope you guys enjoy. Thanks for reading and reviewing.**

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Feyre didn't know if she was seeing straight. Rhysand only wavered as he beheld her, "Are you real?"

She cocked her head. "Of course I'm real."

He let the carcass fall— a boar from the look of the tusks. His chest was heaving, either from the weight. Or from the shock of her.

"Why are you here?"

Feyre recoiled at the question, but managed to answer, "I wanted to make sure you were okay. And now that I'm…healed. I hoped you could answer some questions."

Rhys said nothing. Instead, he trudged into the kitchen and turned on the water spout. Feyre watched him bend to splash his face.

His back rippled as he stood. And Feyre swore she saw a shimmer of something concealed there. But he pivoted before she could see for sure.

"You shouldn't be here," was all he said.

She bristled slightly. But her annoyance evaporated when his eyes settled to her hand.

The journal.

"Did you read it?" he asked blankly.

"I didn't," Feyre took a step, and he took an equal one back. So she added, "But I want to."

He blinked. "Then I won't stop you."

Rhysand turned to leave, but Feyre shot forward to call, "I didn't' come to read my own writings. I came to hear the truth from you."

"Please," she said lower when he did not move, "I only just woke up to find myself in a new body. And on top of that, my family and I are fleeing after the King was murdered. Any further light you can shed on those revelations would be much appreciated."

"I don't have answers for you. Not the ones you want to hear." Rhys turned minutely, "I fled for a reason. You should leave now."

"Have I hurt you in some way?"

"No. But you must go all the same."

"Not before you tell me what happened in that throne room!" Feyre suddenly demanded; finding the end to her patience.

Rhys only clenched his teeth.

"That King died from just cause in that retched room," he growled, "And that's the last you'll hear of it from me."

"Fine. Then tell me what happened between us." Feyre finally stepped around the couch. His eyes were watery as he glanced sidelong at her.

"You're not real. So what's the use of explaining."

Feyre visibly recoiled. She didn't know if she should shout or cry that she was there and she was real.

But Rhys wasn't accepting her words, so she would have to prove it a different way.

As Feyre turned inside herself; this new magic obeyed on instinct. Sweeping outwards, her power found the mind in front of her from pure muscle memory.

Rhys put up no defense. And she slacked to feel how helpless he had become.

But Feyre surged on.

" _What are you running from?"_ she asked through thought alone. But Rhysand remained silent.

She sighed, opening her mind to him: showing the broken pieces and parts of herself. Even if they were sparse and unreadable, Feyre hoped her vulnerability would spark his own.

But he only heaved a great sigh.

"That won't work," Rhys said, "I've made my decision."

"You say so. But I'm here, Rhys. I'm real and I want to understand."

"You can't understand."

"Just tell me what the King died for," she started.

"I can't!" Rhys suddenly shouted, his expression was the most pained Feyre had ever seen. But he went on, "Don't you see? It was _me_ that ruined it all. _You_ gave yourself for our people. But I spoiled it. Our bargain is broken. And if you stay with me, you'll perish. But I will not watch you go through that again. I cannot."

She went still at his explanation. There were too many holes in the puzzle; she couldn't piece it together. So Feyre would have to press harder.

"I don't care about any broken bargain," she snapped with equal heat, "You think I'm a figment you've imagined? Then what do you have to lose?"

He wavered, "I won't relive it."

Feyre raised her brows, "So you would leave me while you hide here?"

Something unworldly crossed his face. And she knew she had finally gotten his attention.

"I need answers that only you can give," she said softer, "The real me needs you more than ever."

His eyes finally lifted to her, and Feyre couldn't place the amount of emotion in them. "Please, Rhys."

He clenched his eyes shut. "I could never leave you. That was the problem."

She went utterly still.

"You gave your life to save so many," his voice was barely a whisper, "And the King cursed you for it. He made it so you couldn't be with me, or you'd die. That's why I can't go back, Feyre."

He sucked in a breath before continuing, "No matter my feelings for you, the siren cannot be beaten. I only had one chance. And now that the Kings dead and our final bargain broken, there's no stopping it."

"Is that what you think? I'll die if we remain together?" Feyre glanced to where his fist bound and unbound. Her own skin crackled from the tension.

"Well, you're wrong." she said, "I will not die if I stay with you, because my siren is gone, Rhys. It can never control me ever again."

His eyes shot wide open. But he hesitated all the same. "You're just telling me what I want to hear."

Feyre shook her head, "When I woke, not only did I have a different body, but a different voice in my head. And this….voice—" She blinked as Rhys attention grew ever more rapt. Feyre didn't wholly know what she was describing. But she went on,

"—It led me here to you. It's the same voice saying we can't give up now. No matter what the King once did, or what we've endured, we will survive this together."

"And that's how I know I love you," she suddenly announced, and he froze. "Somehow, without my mind or body even knowing it; my _soul_ does." Feyre suddenly took his hand, and he allowed it. "I am _here_ now, Rhys. And I came to tell you I love you with everything I am."

She waited; expecting him to scoff or tell her she was just figment again.

But instead, he looked to where she held his hand. And slowly turned.

Rhysand beheld her for what felt like infinity. And Feyre did not waver for one second of it.

Either after an eternity, or mere moments of one, he finally pulled her into his chest.

Feyre did nothing but revel in the warmth of his arms, closing her eyes to the feeling.

And she was finally at peace.

"Why did you have to go and say that?" he groaned.

Feyre let out a choked breath of her own. She didn't know she was crying until she felt the wet tears leaking into his shirt.

But she didn't care. She let them rush forward like a dam being wrecked. Because that's what she felt like.

No, not wrecked. But slowly being rebuilt.

Rhysand only continued to hold her for several untouchable minutes. As if he was counting each breath she took; each one making the rigidly in his shoulders relax.

Feyre let out a shaky sigh each muscle of his she felt ease. Her heart did the same.

On that ship, she remembered feeling so barren without her siren. It had terrified her to think she was not herself any longer.

But here, with Rhys…

She finally felt herself coming back; her _real_ self, slowly but surely stepping from the shadows the siren had once kept her in.

When Rhys parted, he swallowed to see her face damp with tears. His eyes were wet with his own.

He quickly wiped Feyre's away with his thumbs; nothing but love in the gentle gesture. She gave him a soft smile.

"Do you believe I'm here now?"

"I'm still not sure," he murmured, never taking his eyes from her, "How do you know the siren's really gone?"

Feyre leaned into his touch; taking a broad hand to twine into her own. They fit perfectly.

"Because nothing keeps us apart any longer." she clasped his hand; just now realizing it for herself, "And I know deep inside, you sense the same."

Just then an electric static shot up her arm. And his lips shuddered.

"See?" she said, "No more siren. The King is dead, and all that remains is us."

"It's really you then?"

She smiled at his first sign of recognition. But Feyre had no time to say anything else before he was kissing her.

It was urgent as she instantly opened to him; letting their lips tell each other what they felt. She was glad, since the emotions twining around Feyre's heart had no hope of explanation.

Rhys let out a groan to the same. She dug her fingers into his hair, tugging him that much closer.

As their mouths deepened, neither of them held anything back. Feyre poured everything into him, every ounce of pain and sorrow. And Rhys took it with equal heat.

But when his hands slid down to her waist, Feyre had one single need.

She moved from his mouth, raising on her toes to reach every inch of his neck. Rhys' took leave to explore her sides before slipping his hands under her tunic. He dragged his calloused palms along the band of her trousers, and Feyre was ignited.

"The bed," she ordered when they finally parted. Rhysand hummed before hiking her against him.

She gasped to feel him hard and ready. His lips were already at her ear, slowly kissing the spot just below with agonizing heat.

Feyre was already shedding her shirt as he carried her to the tiny bed. His mouth opened to sweep along her neck with long strokes.

And she groaned.

"Say it again," Rhys murmured into her skin. Feyre arched when his teeth scraped against her throat. And she knew what he wanted to hear.

"I love you."

He growled at her answer, her words breaking something inside him. Rhys set her at the foot of the bed to face her fully. And she shuddered at his gaze.

"I love you more than life, my darling Feyre," he rasped. And her lust was not derailed at the ferocity of his words, but urged forward.

Like an unstoppable force, she had to have him.

Rhysand read the heat in her eyes, slowly lying her atop the duvet. He stood to shed his own tunic. And Feyre had no shame in openly admiring his naked chest.

Her eyes widened to see the spiraling black ink of several tattoos. They bunched as he bent to kiss her softly; tenderly.

But before Feyre could pull him closer, he was moving to pepper kisses between each breast. She moaned when he swirled his hot tongue around both peaks, sucking hard as Feyre spun her hands into his thick hair.

"Rhys," she suddenly wanted to feel all of him. Feyre managed to fit a hand between their flush bodies, and when she found his impressive length hard and waiting, she palmed him roughly.

Rhys snarled like a feral animal. But he only rose a moment later. "I want to see all of you first."

Feyre gave no paused before helping him from her trousers. Once naked, Rhysand's violet eyes absorbed every crevice of her naked body.

Then she watched his gaze lower slowly, before settling to the apex of her thighs.

And his face darkened.

Feyre didn't think she was breathing as Rhys bowed to caress the spot below her navel. Then he drifted lower.

He trailed his finger between the wetness there, growling when he felt how ready she was.

"Do you know how long it's been since I've tasted you?"

Feyre went taught. "How long," she wanted to know; needed to share in every ounce of that agony.

"Too long." Was all he said; voice suddenly thick. But before she could say anything more, Rhys hiked a leg over his shoulder.

"Oh Gods." She jolted when his tongue swept over her center.

Rhys only lapped faster, seemingly possessing endless breath with each moan. Feyre dug her fingers into the sheets with each pass.

Only when feathers started to float around them, did Feyre realize she had torn through the mattress.

But all care evaporated when Rhysand pushed a single finger inside.

Feyre let out a drawn-out cry she didn't know she could make. Rhys only grinned up at her.

"Oh, how I've missed you." He placed a single kiss to her heated flesh. And then he started his rhythm.

He removed his mouth that next moment, only his hands remained. But they worked her body like an instrument.

She was about to beg for more when Rhys suddenly added a second finger to the thrall; stretching her in the best way.

His wicked smirk still remained; watching her pleasure with nothing but full attention.

And when he curled those digits inside her, Feyre arched from the bed.

Rhys only placed his hand atop her abdomen, gently holding her down as waves of pleasure ricocheted. Feyre's core tightened with each pass of his fingers.

And those violet eyes only glowed brighter.

"Rhys," Feyre gasped over and over. She didn't know so much pleasure could stem from just his hands. But she was drawing so close all the same.

"Not yet," he growled. He suddenly took her tiny bundle of nerves into his mouth, and Feyre was sent spiraling.

She screamed his name the entire fall down. But Feyre had no time to settle before Rhys' furious tongue and fingers sent her into another. This one made her convulse as he continued to feast on her with everything he had.

And so she became nothing or no one. But his.

Only after Feyre's muscles shuddered from the strain, did Rhysand rise to give her a satisfied male smile.

"Now this is a sight I can get used to," he drawled.

Feyre herself, didn't know what to look at first: the rigid contours of his abdomen that she wanted to drag her tongue along, or the sizable bulge waiting for her in his trousers.

"Are you just going to stare all day?" Feyre challenged, and his eyes edged towards night.

Then his mouth was on hers. She groaned, tasting herself on his tongue. And somehow, it only made Feyre want him more.

Rhys seemed content to let their tongues spin into a contest of their own. And Feyre was more than happy to let him win as she ran her hands down his back.

"I want all of you," she sighed. And when she reached the curve of his ass, Rhys shuddered.

"I want nothing more."

"How long has it been?" He didn't answer. But she caught his chin. "How long?"

"Don't make me say it," Rhys suddenly rasped; voice raw with emotion.

Feyre went soft at the pain in his face. So she only rose to wrap her arms around his heaving shoulders. He softened immediately.

Their eyes met as Feyre untied his trousers. "Then take me."

Rhysand growled, already standing to kick his feet free. And as Feyre drew her eyes along his heavenly form to find him so gloriously perfect, her mouth watered.

He only gave her a dark smirk. "Stare later, remember?"

She didn't care he had thrown her own words against her, as soon as Rhys settled over her. Feyre immediately parted her legs for him, sighing to feel his hard muscles pressed against her soft.

Rhys braced an elbow beside her; his violet eyes asking the unspoken question. She nodded; her own core blooming in anticipation.

When he teased her wetness in preparation, Feyre wanted to tell him to stop playing. But she soon forgot everything when he edged at her entrance.

Rhys was locked onto Feyre's gaze as he slowly pushed himself in. She swore her soul erupted with each increasing inch.

She held her breath the deeper he went, and when Rhysand completely filled her, they both let out a long groan.

"You feel like heaven," Rhys' hand clenched at her side as he allowed her to adjust.

Feyre's had no answer of her own; not remembering a time when she had felt more whole.

She wished to convey that feeling, but words escaped her.

"Feyre?"

"More," was all she could answer.

And then Rhys started to move.

He started off agonizingly slow, his attention hanging on her every reaction. Feyre thought she was going to combust then and there.

He felt so perfect, and her body sang in joy. But then Rhys murmured into her ear, "Do you know how much I love you?"

Feyre had no answer; no reality but him. So she crashed her lips to his; their tongue and teeth matching the rhythm of each stroke.

Just when Feyre was about to protest to the slow pace, he shifted onto his knees.

He pulled out slowly, before slammed back into her in one fluid motion.

Feyre arched from the bed. And when he did it again, somehow going deeper, she was set ablaze.

Rhys ran a broad hand from her throat as she started to whimper. He teased each breast with thumb and forefinger, but Feyre caught his palm before it could leave her skin.

"I love you," she murmured again. He smiled just as he lowered his other hand to cup her face. Feyre closed her eyes to his touch, and somehow without sight, the sensations he was sending through her increased tenfold.

She felt how perfectly they fit; felt the song of their bodies collide into one melody.

And when Rhys found her tiny bundle of nerves; causing sparks of pleasure to shoot outward, she screamed.

"Oh Gods," she cried over and over. It was too much, this feeing welling inside, Feyre was afraid she would explode.

Rhys only kept his stride as he lowered his mouth to her neck. Each thrust only sent more desire coursing through, Feyre thought it impossible.

But she only wanted more.

She rose to dig her fingers into the muscles of his back, wrapping her legs around his hips as she sat upright. But it was not just the taut muscles of his back she felt when Feyre kissed him.

She spread her hands across what she thought she felt there. There was something rigid, but soft stemming from his shoulder blades.

And he let out a groan.

Feyre went still at what her heart knew to be true. And slowly opening her eyes, what she saw took her breath away.

Wings.

Rhys paused the same instant she did.

"Do they frighten you?"

Feyre's head snapped to find him cautious. "No. Quite the opposite." His eyes were hesitant as Feyre reached out. "May I?"

He nodded. And as Feyre traced her index finger along the curve of one, Rhys shuddered.

She could do nothing but smile, "They're beautiful."

Rhys was silent as he continued to watch her intently. Feyre remained utterly mesmerized by them.

And she suddenly forgot her need as her heart burst.

Her painting on the wall had not been fantasy at all. For they had always been real.

The span of Rhys wings must have been ten feet wide as she observed them. She didn't even blink as she stared at their mystical beauty.

"Why have I never seen them before?" She ran a hand on the inside membrane, reveling in their smooth strength. And Rhys allowed it.

"They were taken when the King took my magic. Only recently were they returned." he glanced behind him, "And I couldn't bear to keep them from you any longer."

She hummed, spreading her fingers as they flared wider, and Feyre's heart rocketed faster.

They were stunning. Every inch of them.

And she had never wanted Rhys more than that moment.

Feyre met his lips brutally, almost savagely as Rhys seemed shocked for a moment. But he caught up quickly, kissing Feyre back with equal fervor.

Feyre rose onto her knees as she took his bottom lip between her teeth. She felt more than heard the snap of his wings breaking full width. And she trembled.

"More," was all she could hum.

Rhys nodded, tugging her closer. Feyre cried out at the new angle, looking down and the sight of his hips meeting hers; then to the great shadow of his wings.

She gasped when Rhysand planted his mouth at her ear. But Feyre could not take her eyes off of them.

"Do you love the sight, Feyre?" he purred, "See what you do to me?"

She reached out to touch his wing's strange iridescence, wanting to explore further. And when Feyre dragged her index finger across their silky smoothness, he twitched inside her.

"Devious," he growled, and Feyre smiled.

Yes. She did love the sight of him like this. Everything about Rhys drove her into a lustful trance. She couldn't get enough as she wrapped her hands around his neck.

Rhysand suddenly increased pace. His breath rushing as she gasped with every thrust he gave.

Her blood sparked with fire when his fingers dug into the flesh of her ass. But before Feyre could announce she was close, they were rolling.

Now Feyre was no longer beneath Rhysand, but poised astride him.

He remained inside her through the shift, but now his wings were beneath him. Pinned.

She whimpered at the sight. But Rhys only caught her chin to meet the concern in her eyes.

"I'm fine," he murmured, "I want to watch you now."

And the heat in his eyes was so immense, Feyre could no nothing but obey.

So she started moving.

Rhys' wrapped his grip around her waist; matching Feyre's pace. And when she started to go faster, a tightness coiled deep in her core.

She was close.

But she didn't want it to end yet as she gazed down to Rhys. His eyes were unbearably bright as he beheld her.

Then Feyre understood with his wings beneath him, this was his way of surrendering completely to her. And her chest expanded.

So Feyre gave into that revelation; a small brightness starting to glow in her chest. It flared brighter the longer his violet eyes locked onto hers.

Feyre knew she had never felt this way, and her heart whispered the same. It was if she and Rhys were matched by heaven itself.

The realization was more powerful than Feyre could have ever imagined.

And when Rhys suddenly took control of her hips, the melding of their body and spirit almost made Feyre cry from sheer force.

It threatened to pull her down, down, towards oblivion. But Feyre held fast; yielding to nothing and no one but him.

Her true equal.

Rhys must have sensed how closer she was.

"Together, then," he said before taking all her weight into his arms, slamming into Feyre with ferocity.

She met him stride for stride; reaching a speed she hardly knew possible. And when Rhysand reached that secret spot deep in her core, she was undone.

Feyre shattered around him completely, pleasure rocketing through every part of her. She swore her soul split with along with everything else; spearing any remnants of her broken self into that void.

Until all that was left was Rhys.

Feyre moaned his name over and over as her climax consumed her. Rhys only kept that driving force; making sure she was given every ounce of pleasure.

Just when she started to come down from her high, his teeth latched onto her neck, canines scraping so close to her life blood she cried out.

There were so many emotions running through Feyre when Rhys laid a kiss on that very spot, whispering his love for her over and over. And soon enough, her climax rushed into the other.

And this time when Feyre fell, Rhysand went plummeting with her.

He roared her name so loud, she thought their tiny island would crumble into the sea.

But Feyre kept hold onto his arms. For if they were to be swallowed by the ocean, then they would sink together.

But the island remained standing. Long enough so they could each find their breath.

And even as their pleasure slowly receded, Feyre didn't want to part.

She wanted to grip onto that feeling forever; hold onto Rhys forever. He did not let go either, as if echoing the same sentiment.

When she finally parted to look at him, Feyre found him smiling.

"I never knew it could be like that," she breathed. Rhys bent to kiss her shoulder.

"You'll get used to it." He paused, "Actually, I take that back. I will never have enough of you." His lips trailed lower, and her breath caught as he sucked on her breast.

"It felt like—" she tried to find the right words as Rhys switched to her other, "Like we were truly one."

He hummed in agreement. But Feyre was not speaking in hypotheticals.

She felt it. It was as if there was a string bound around her very essence.

It had been loose when she had first touched the sand of the island. But with each moment Feyre spent in Rhys' arms, it grew tighter.

It was leading her down a spiraling path. So deep down inside herself it had been practically invisible until that very moment.

Now it was open to her; calling Feyre to follow.

So she did.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

" _Feyre, leave me to deal with this. They need you elsewhere," Rhys ordered, pushing her past the swarm of soldiers like she was their last life line._

 _Feyre forced her dwindling power to hold fast. She couldn't bear to look at what lay before them. If she did, then she wouldn't be able to stomach it._

 _So instead, Feyre faced the mound where the King and his guards waited, and watched. The battle had been going on for hours; all the seven Kingdoms, uniting together to try and stop him from tyranny._

 _But they were losing. Even with all the High Lords and their magic, the King controlled his insatiable soldiers with spells. And the warriors did not fear death like the rest of them…_

 _But yearned for its' destruction._

 _It never mattered how hard she and Rhys had prepared; strategizing for months with each kingdom the King slowly overtook._

 _The rest of the High Lords' and their armies were no match. She had hoped and prayed Feyre and her mate would be able to stop it. But she felt it in her bones._

 _They could not win this war._

 _And after they lost, the King would find the sole person that had dared stop him in final victory. And define a new meaning of torture._

 _Feyre didn't want to imagine the creative ways the King would brutalize her mate._

 _She would like to wish she and Rhys could flee. Maybe to their tiny little island they had spent such a small sliver of happiness on before the world went to hell._

 _Perhaps there, they could live off the land, and finally care about nothing and no one but each other._

 _But she knew Rhys could not give up so easily. And Feyre didn't want to ask him to._

 _Even then Rhys was thinking of her safety; calling for her to leave the front. He knew as much as her, their fight was waning._

 _But as Feyre finally spun to the war field, finding so many males and females fighting for their lives, Fae and Human alike, she knew what had to be done._

" _Promise you won't follow me," she called to her mate. Rhys' head shot to her as he broke a man's neck with nothing but magic._

 _Her mate reeked of too many people's blood; his usually smirking face drawn in death and darkness._

" _And forgive me for what I'm about to do." Feyre wished she could have seen him smile. One last time._

 _Her heart ripped to see the confusion on his beautiful face. But she gave no more explanation as Feyre kissed his hand._

" _Goodbye, my love," she said through wet eyes; slipping herself from his hold. Then Feyre turned to where the evil King smiled at the bloodbath before them._

 _And walked towards him._

 _She felt her mate try and grapple for her, but Feyre had created a wall of unbreakable wind with magic. And Gods, how it killed her to do it._

 _But where she was going, Rhys could not follow._

" _FEYRE!" he was screaming now, cutting down anyone that dare stand in his way. She shuddered at each wick of life she felt Rhys drain._

 _All to try and reach her._

 _But Feyre faced nothing and no one but the King. He did not fight like the rest of them. He only waited for victory with each Fae his ilk killed._

 _But it seemed she and Rhys had finally caught his attention when he turned._

 _Feyre raised her chin to his sinister stare, preparing herself to climb that hill and offer herself to the most retched male in all history._

 _But she felt something warm at her wrist._

 _Rhysand._

" _Feyre, stop!" he was hysterical as he grasped her shoulders, "I know what you're thinking, and let me go instead."_

 _Feyre only smiled, allowing no more tears to fall as she stroked his check. Rhys didn't lean into her touch this time. "I won't let him kill you, Rhys, you know he will. He only wants me as a prize."_

" _And you think that's better?" Rhys yelled over the cries of war. "Whatever bargain he gives, it's not worth you!"_

 _Feyre did nothing but glance to her fellow kin. So many lives that she had once promised to defend, months ago, when she had officially become High Lady of the Night Court._

 _Only to have them die in vain._

 _And Feyre wouldn't let Rhys be one of them._

" _I don't care what he does to me," she said, "And if you knew me at all, you'd let me go."_

 _His eyes narrowed. "That won't work. There has to be another way."_

" _Not the one I want to see."_

 _Instead, Feyre saw the alternative. And Rhys would survive it. He would fight that happiness after she was gone for a while, but he would find joy eventually._

 _And maybe she was selfish and weak to do so, but Feyre had to be the one._

 _Without her mate, she would always feel empty; and nothing or no one could ever fill that void._

 _But if she knew Rhys was alive, and their kingdom safe with her sacrifice, that would be more than enough._

 _It had to be._

" _Let me go," she hushed. Rhys dark power quaked as Feyre slowly unfurled his fingers from her shoulders, "Let me do this for our people." He shook his head in pure anguish. Feyre only nodded. "Let me do this for you."_

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I remember now, Rhys." Feyre murmured as she broke back to present. Rhys went still inside her. "Gods, I remember it all," she cried, "I remember the war, the aftermath. I offered myself to the King for it to end. And you—" She cut off with choked breath.

Her body trembled from the weight of so much. She felt someone wiping away her tears, but it was useless as more fell.

It was all spiraling back to her, and Feyre's heart couldn't take the grief. And Rhys….

He had never given up on Feyre. Not once.

After the deal was struck, Rhys had come for her. Offering anything the King would take.

First his magic. But the King had always been a step ahead; returning Feyre, not as herself, but with her siren.

She remembered the feeling of dying. She remembered how Rhysand drove himself into darkness trying to break Feyre from the leech that was her siren.

And even if it had torn Rhys apart to discover the more he tried to help, the more the siren ate at her heart, he finally let Feyre go.

It had almost cost him all his remaining magic to wipe her memory. Only for her to be swept into poverty after her foster parents died; leaving Feyre to support her sisters.

And when Rhys couldn't help her from that slow starvation, he struck a bargain with the King. The payment being their mating bond in exchange for a good life for Feyre. But that could not include Rhys.

Even if that meant her living with the King once more.

But Rhys had come again. Offering the one loophole of her siren.

A bargain.

Feyre could do nothing but clutch Rhys closer to remember it all. He ran his hand through her hair, breathing the same words as she absorbed their past,

"I'm so sorry, love," he hushed.

Feyre immediately opened her to him, too weak to ask the questions aloud.

' _Were we mates?'_

' _Yes.'_

Feyre didn't know how many minutes she sat there, in his lap. Letting her tears fall for what they endured. And finally, she asked her second question.

' _Was I your High Lady?'_

Rhysand's answer was the same, but this one was quieter.

' _Yes.'_

She hardly knew she was breathing her sobs were so frenzied. But no matter how her heart eased with each pass of his hand, Feyre would not ask the question she feared the most.

 _Is our bond still broken?_

Rhysand only remained there, letting her come to terms. Like he always had, time and time again.

"Are you alright?" he finally asked when her sobs slowed. Feyre lifted her head to face him.

"I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."

His libs wobbled at that. But Rhys only gave a slow nod as she rested her temple in the crook of his neck. "There's nothing to forgive, Feyre. You gained it before you even asked."

"But can you forgive me for abandoning you; our people?" Feyre breathed in his scent over and over, trying to figure out how to apologize for so many centuries of mistakes.

"You don't have to ask," he said softer, "They gave it. And so will I, no matter what you do."

She sat up straighter, "But I have done too much Rhys. I refused you, I scorned you every memory wipe. And each time you were only trying to help."

"Feyre—"he broke off with a groan. She glanced between them, her hands flitting to see what was wrong.

"What is it?"

He only moaned; hardening inside her. "When you tense, so does your body." He explained with meaning. And Feyre finally understood.

"Sorry," she made a move to ease from him. Rhys only held her closer.

"No need to apologize. I don't want to hear it ever again."

"Then no more." she managed to say. "No more sorries, and no more apologies. I'm too tired for them."

"I agree." He ran a finger down the side of her face, seeming to memorize her features, "And I'm sure you have many more questions."

"So you finally believe I'm real?"

Rhysand started to frown "I can't believe I ever doubted—"

"Stop," she said, "You had a right to be skeptical."

He gave a grim smile to that. "So, any preference where to start, Feyre darling?"

She turned her attention to his wings, now they were tucked neatly behind him. She parted his hair to find his elegantly peaked ears, and several more questions spiraled through her mind.

The King had taken Rhysand's magic, that she knew now. But it seemed after his death, she and Rhys had been restored; evidenced by their heightened form.

Yet Feyre couldn't help but wonder if another magical curse had been broken.

She wondered if they were still mates.

But she didn't want to break this bubble of theirs. Not yet.

"I don't see any fancy bathing chamber for us to fool around in while we do," Feyre suggested.

Rhysand finally laughed; the sound rich and full of joy. Something she wished only to hear from now on.

"I see you can remember that part of our time together."

She shrugged, "It's a rather poignant memory."

Rhys gave her a deviant smirk, "Then I have something better than a bathing chamber."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Really?" Feyre gave a skeptical glare as they stopped at the waters' edge, "The ocean? Where sea creatures could sneak up at any moment?"

"I think you'll agree we both need a cooling off," Rhysand chuckled before taking her hand. "And I was a sailor once. There's nothing to fear in those waters. Besides me, at least."

Feyre gave him a long look at that.

"Alright fine, we don't have to."

"No. I want to." She paused to scowl at the waves, "It's only, my last trip has rid me of wanting to swim for a great while."

"I never did ask you how you got here."

Feyre went quiet. And Rhysand gave her a long look.

"Feyre, you didn't."

"I was worried about you," she shrugged, "I had no idea what you would do to yourself if you were left to your thoughts. And thank the Gods I did come!"

"Still," he gave her a stern glare, but one that ended in him smiling, "Everyone must be out of their minds with worry. That means we will have to leave sooner rather than later."

Feyre ran her eyes down his form, "I prefer later."

He gave a wry chuckle at that, but he only led her into the rushing waves; nothing but chastity on his lips when he kissed her shoulder.

Feyre let him; relishing in the man behind her. The water almost matched the air temperature as they passed swell after swell.

Then Rhysand's voice broke the silence, "I must thank you for coming, Feyre. I still don't think I deserve any of what you did. Or you for that matter. But thank you all the same."

She blinked at the sadness in his voice. "I thought we promised no more apologies."

"That wasn't an apology, that was gratitude."

She turned only quirked a brow at him, and he huffed out a breath. "Fine. That's the last one."

"Good." Feyre wrapped her arms around his abdomen. "Now I will apologize one last time."

"For what?"

Before Rhys could grow wise to her plan, Feyre pushed him into an oncoming wave.

His shocked face was the last thing she saw before the ocean swallowed his entire form.

Wings and all.

And then Feyre was running. But a pair of arms caught her waist before she could reach shore.

She shrieked as Rhysand let out a booming laugh, one that vibrated through Feyre's bones.

Then she was being thrown into the water.

She lingered in the air much longer than he had, but when she splashed into the ocean, it was warm yet refreshing before Feyre resurfaced.

Her hair was spattered along her face as she sputtered for breath. Rhysand only laughed harder.

"Prick," she scowled.

"By the way, apology _not_ accepted," Rhysand teased as he turned. And Feyre saw all the sand stuck to his wings. It covered them completely, creating a layer of irritable, itchy coarseness.

Now it was Feyre's turn to laugh.

"Really?" he quirked, and she snorted at the thick clumps of seaweed stuck into his hair. "I never should have shown them to you in the first place."

"Oh, poor baby," Feyre came closer, and Rhysand pretended not to soften as she splashed water on his dirty wings. When they were entirely cleaned, she tugged him closer.

"Truce? I'm too tired to run though this water anymore."

"You didn't seem tired a few minutes ago," he purred. And his words brushed against her core in the best way.

And just like that, Feyre was ready from him again.

But she glanced to his wings. They had only just appeared along with other changes to their forms. Plus, the tattoo swirling up her hand and wrist, beckoned for its own explanation.

And all of it effectively snapped Feyre from her desire.

She decided to begin at the black swirls on her skin, "What does it mean? It appeared when I woke."

"That can't be the first thing you want to know."

"Fine. What are we, then? Because I _know_ we're not human. Nor siren and triton any longer."

"You were once human," Rhysand bent lower in the water, "But that was before Tamlin took you and the King cursed you with that siren," He heaved a great sigh. And Feyre yearned to understand his pain, "Our history has been a long and winding one, Feyre darling. I don't know where to begin."

She nodded, "Then start with how we met."


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N This chapter is also…a lot. Be kind.**

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

"Where to start." Rhys smiled as she swept Feyre to his side. "Perhaps where we met?"

She angled to him, her own grin starting to bud on her lips, "I suppose that's a good place as ever."

Rhys paused for a moment before taking her hand. Feyre watched as he splayed his palm in hers; his rough callouses scraping against her sensitive skin.

"How about I show you?" he hummed. And Feyre knew what he was asking. So without thinking a second more, she nodded.

Slowly, she felt him enter her mind. Waves rolled and crashed as Rhysand slowly but surely, showed Feyre their immense history.

From the very beginning, it was one so full of grief and suffering; love and sacrifice, her chest heaved to know it all.

The trials they had undergone in their early relationship were things no one should ever have to experience. Yet Rhys had endured it all for Feyre.

But one sorrow stood out beyond all.

She had been taken away from him too many times.

And with each memory that ushered through her mind, Feyre further understood the sheer amount of love he possessed for her. No matter what, Rhys put her first time and time again.

But despite his willingness to give it all up for Feyre, they had always been torn apart some force. Either by her own resentment of him or more recently…

The King.

Now that the forces keeping them apart were all gone, she and Rhys were faced with different challenges. With coming to terms from their past, and now the future.

Yet despite all that Feyre should be asking or not asking Rhys, one question still rang in the forefront of her mind _._

 _Was her and Rhys' mating bond still intact?_

Feyre had no time to get an answer as Rhysand withdrew his hand. The rush of memories receded.

And she once again, was left with her own thoughts.

As she considered the shock of it all; of meeting and parting through so many avenues, Feyre couldn't blame Rhys for fleeing to this island when he could.

Perhaps this place was his one small slice of happiness in nothing but a war of an existence.

And now that Feyre knew, she would spend the rest of her life to see it all repaid.

"—So, that brings us up to the end of the war." Rhys said simply when Feyre had yet to speak. And how could she?

How could she comfort the male in front of her, when Feyre had only just grasped what he had gone through?

"How long has it been," was the first thing she asked.

Rhys was silent as a rather large wave threatened to take her with it. But Feyre went nowhere as he pulled her closer. "How long has the King been tormenting us," she repeated. His head lowered.

"The King kept you long enough to take the rest of the courts afterward. All the while slowly wiping away your memories." Rhys voice was barely a brush in the wind, but she heard the regret there; how painful this was going to be for him.

Perhaps that's why he was fighting so hard to right the world. Rhys thought he was the first one to have forsaken it.

And her.

Feyre wanted to take him into his arms, to tell him none of it was his fault.

But he only went on, "Mor and the rest of them begged me to get you out. At first, I didn't want to betray my last promise to you. You had wanted to be let go, so I honored that wish."

He steadied his breathing before continuing, "Decades past as I tried to accept you were gone. I heard accounts of the King showing you off like a trophy. Otherwise you were treated well, so I continued to obey your wish. Mor and the rest of them were harder to appease. They tried hundreds of ways to set you free. But each attempt only pushed you closer to the King."

Feyre let that roll around in her head as she kept her hands clasped around his waist. "Then what was the breaking point?"

His jaw feathered, his gaze remaining on that tiny blip of land in front of them. Feyre didn't want to know why he couldn't look her while he retold their story. Perhaps if he did, Rhys would be overcome by his grief.

And wouldn't be able to finish.

"Maybe it was all my wallowing and self-pity," he grumbled, his grip on her tightening slightly, "Or the fact that Mor told me promise or no, I couldn't let you do this alone. We couldn't let you give your life for all of ours." He sighed, "So that next day, I offered the King the only thing I knew he wanted more than you. My magic."

Feyre pressed her eyes shut at the words; that Rhys had been so broken to give up his own power…

"Once the King took the parts of my magic he wanted," Rhys surged forward. His words becoming more rushed, "I was left with all the worst parts. The hatred, and the despair. And it left the King with the power to take whatever rest of the world there was," Rhys tone was utterly flat when he finished. But Feyre sensed how he was trying to remain strong.

So she merely lay her cheek against his chest; listening to his thundering heartbeat. Reminding each other that they were safe, and they had made it out.

"I'm sorry," was all she could say. Feyre wished to know the words to ease his heartache.

But none came.

He merely squeezed her once, twice. Feyre took it as a silent thank you.

"I was too weak to stop him," he said out loud, "The King almost pillaged the north continent dry. And the rest of us that were left, we had no choice but retreat. So we moved, building a new Night Court from the ground up. The southern continent was nothing but a remnant of a lost civilization. So we restored it."

Rhys sucked in a shuddering breath, and Feyre could only guess what came next.

"I thought it was over. But all was not well. I should have sensed something was not right with you. Your memories came back, but you were sleeping more, eating all the time, only to lose weight every day. But I was just so happy you were returned, I never stopped to ask what the real price had been—"

Feyre felt tears start to form in her eyes. But she managed to speak. "You couldn't have known about my siren, Rhys. The King was evil."

"I thought it was the stress of the move," he all but chocked, "All the work of building and delegating was wearing you down." He let out a long exhale that tugged at Feyre's grip on him. But she held fast.

"So we left," Rhys regained himself slightly, and her chest clenched to hear it. "I gave the new Night Court to Mor's family, and we spent centuries on this island, hiding from the world."

He paused to swallow, his head bowing to the sea, "But you were getting thinner; weaker. The more I tried to help, the more I realized I was the one causing it." His voice cut out with a sob. Feyre finally gazed up to find his eyes bloodshot with tears.

She couldn't stop her own from falling. Or speak for that matter.

"I shouldn't have been so naive," Rhys growled, as his anguish consumed his features, "I wanted our happily ever after so badly, I was willing to ignore everything else to have it. I was selfish, Feyre. And it took me months to make the decision. But I had to let you go."

She shook out a breath at what was to come next: Feyre's life with her sister's. Of selling herself on the street with her siren.

Rhys tensed before continuing.

"I contacted Mor after decades of hiding. She and the rest of the inner circle were doing well as they could; while keeping out of the King's wrath on the rest of the world.

But Azriel had intel of your family living at ease in the capitol. No one knew why the King hadn't stolen them as well, maybe sentimental reasons for you. But they were there; living peacefully. So I had found my answer."

"Gods, I had no idea," Feyre mused out loud. So her sisters' were immortal themselves. But now that the King was gone would their own memories be restored….

Feyre only added that question to her long list of others. They would have to wait to be answered once they returned to the mainland.

But for now, Rhys muscles clenched stiffer the further the story spun on. Feyre could do nothing but sooth him with each stroke along his back.

And listen.

"I left you there with them," Rhys said quieter, "Using whatever magic I had left to make your sister's think nothing was amiss; hoping you would grow to be okay again. But the King had the entire north by then, and Mor's family was ruling the south. I had nowhere to go. Not anywhere I wanted to be, anyway."

Feyre ran her hand along the lines of his back. His wings flared wider, catching a bit of wind before folding back a bit too rigidly.

And Feyre understood what part of their story they had reached.

"That was when I lost all sight of what mattered," Rhys all but whispered. "I kept telling myself to let you live your own life, while my inner circle had their own. When I realized there was no longer any place for me in any of my loved ones' lives, I took to piracy."

His body shifted, and Feyre wondered if this part of his story was the part he was most ashamed of. "There, I slowly started to destroy the King's spice and silver trade. He may have had you, but he would not win.

I disrupted his trading routes. I thought I was doing good, taking his outside source of wealth and choking him dry. But he only turned to his own lands, starving out his people to build up what he had lost.

It was then, utterly racked with guilt for what I had done to innocent lives, I knew I could no longer hide from my real responsibilities."

Feyre craned her neck to look at him. "Like your throne?"

The sun was hitting the angles of his face as he took in a long breath. The rays shone off his tanned skin, making him look more like a god than anything.

No not a god.

But a High Lord.

His shoulders finally lowered. "Mor was doing well in her role. They all wanted me back of course, but I wasn't ready. The south they had created had become a haven for all remaining Fae. It was the best kept secret, and we renamed it Velaris because so. I would only ruin it with my return."

Rhys stopped at that, and she could do nothing but wait.

"Then I got a note from Azriel, saying you had fallen on hard times, and that—" he swallowed, "—That you were selling yourself with your siren to support you and your sisters."

Feyre managed to gulp down the thickness in her throat. But to know that Rhys' inner circle; _her_ inner circle had never given up on her made her chest expand.

"I gave up piracy to find you," Rhys announced, "My ships; whatever wealth I had accumulated through stealing the King's merchant goods, I gave away. I wanted to find you again, to be a male you could be proud of.

But I underestimated how long it would take to find you; and the complexity of the King's spells that kept me out of the North. By the time I broke through them, I was absolutely penniless."

Feyre kissed his chest, once, twice. Because she knew the next chapter to come with all that she was. The street corner.

"I knew I never deserved you," Rhys muttered, clutching Feyre that much closer, "But when you gave me that coin purse instead of saving yourself, I knew what had to be done. I had to face my throne, and my people. I had to face the male you had once sacrificed yourself for. Not just for the sake of what you did, but for the woman you had become."

She felt hot tears start to rush forward, no matter how she tried to stop them. Feyre was thankful for the ocean; for the rushing of waves to soothe in their own way.

Then she felt him pause.

"This is too much for you," Rhys said rather sternly, "We can stop."

Feyre squeezed his hand. "No, keep going. I need to hear this."

Rhys sucked in a deep breath, perhaps gaining his own bearings as well. And then he went on,

"The King was triumphant when I begged for your salvation," he said darkly, "He demanded our bond for you to be saved from poverty. And you to return to his side once more."

Feyre could imagine Rhys on his knees in front of the King. Begging, as he said. The image made her shudder.

 _I will bow to no one buy my equal._ The words echoed in time with her anguish. Her hands clenched the muscles of Rhys's back to center herself. But one thought would not cease.

 _Is our bond still broken?_

Rhys only went to loosen her upper arms, gently stroking the skin there to try and relax her.

"Feyre, please, we don't have to go on if you don't want to," he said. Feyre managed to shake her head, regaining herself with a rather unattractive sniffle.

"It's just a lot to process," she said, "But I want to know it all."

Rhys hummed at that, continuing to swipe his hands from her shoulders down to her wrists. But he stopped there, taking her hands to wrap back around his waist. Like an anchor.

The ocean continued to carry on around them. And she let some of that strength run through her.

And as he let her absorb every single fragment of their torment, Feyre willed them to survive this.

With sheer ferocity, no matter what it took, no matter how long, Feyre vowed that they would be happy again.

But in the back of her mind, she knew so much of her was lost. Including her own memories of what Rhys was telling her. And she didn't know how to heal both their wounds at the same time.

Only when Feyre's breathing returned to normal, did he go on,

"It was luck that Mor's parents found me at all," he exhaled, "The war had changed them, they were now better, ruling in my stead as King and Queen, and Mor dubbed princess. But whatever my role was to be, I didn't care. I was once more, reunited with my inner circle after nearly a hundred years of being apart."

"I should have been happy knowing you were living your own royal life. Even if the King was evil, he could never do anything to harm you because of the stipulation of that first bargain. At least that's what I thought."

She tensed as Rhys gently explained, "We were all gone on a delegation, and when we returned, Mor's parents were dead. Poisoned. But it was absolutely clear who had been the culprit."

He let that sink in for a moment, and Feyre thought she might collapse. "I never apologized for their deaths." She looked up to meet his eyes; only to discover them impossibly soft.

"We weren't close." Rhys ran a finger along her cheek, wiping away the remaining tears there. "Before the war, they weren't the best of Fae," he all but grunted, but she didn't buy it.

Feyre hadn't been close to her mother, since she was a particularly hard woman. But that didn't mean she didn't love her all the same.

"Then I'm glad the King finally paid for all that he did," she growled suddenly. "And I hope he suffered."

Rhys nodded slowly, his thumb swiping slow circles along her jaw. "Believe me, he did."

"Good." Was all Feyre said, but something else resided in his eyes. Not so much pain or sadness. But regret.

"What is it?" she tugged him harder with meaning. He only shook his head.

"I had Azriel's spies keeping tabs on your condition," his hand dropped to her neck, cupping it gently, "While Amren and I searched for ways to get you out once and for all, I hardly slept for weeks, trying to find ways to get past the King's spells _and_ your siren. The only answer was a bargain."

"That second day in the north," Feyre mused out loud, "In the gardens, you offered me a deal not from blackmail, but—"

He nodded, "The loophole was clear. Amren said if I made sure strings attached; and not just acting on my concern for you, the siren could do nothing to harm you. You hated me so much then. The latest memory wipe worked too well. And your siren was rejecting me more than ever. But I still had to get you away from him. And that would have to be enough."

Feyre let out a whoosh of breath. "Gods, those days seem likes eons ago."

"That day in the gardens, was a moment we all had been working towards for centuries." Rhys lowered into the water with a long breath, taking her to perch on his lap. "I knew how to figure out your siren at last. And we could be together again. But of course, I was too caught up to realize—" he broke off suddenly.

"Rhys—" Feyre clutched his wrist, "I was an idiot to leave. No matter the King's threats.

"I was trying to find the right way to tell you our history," even if his body remained rigid, she heard the surrender in his voice, "I was so close that day I proposed. But then you rejected me, and I thought you were truly over me. Over us."

"Never." Feyre felt her own lips tremble, "Never, Rhys, I just couldn't let anyone die for me. Least of all you."

She prayed the excuse was enough for rejecting the best man she had ever known.

Rhys only swept his hands along her sides; soothing her even now.

"I know," he hushed tenderly, "You always had the will to sacrifice yourself for others. I was just too hurt to connect the dots. But I figured it out soon enough."

"When did you realize." The waves calmed as the sun sunk lower in the sky. Rhys turned her forward again, kissing the back of her neck. She sighed when his arms twined around her waist, pulling her against him.

"When Mor gave me your ring," he breathed into her hair, "I sailed North the next instant."

Feyre groaned, "I never should have lied. We could have figured it out together. But I—"

"I know. And no more apologies, remember?" His voice was finally lighter, no longer choked with guilt and grief.

Feyre leaned against him; savoring the warmth of the male behind her. Not just physical heat, but the insurmountable fire in his heart. For his family, for his people. For her.

No matter how far they strayed.

So with all that in mind, Feyre sucked in a breath, bracing herself for the final question, "One last thing."

"Hmmm?"

Feyre kept her eyes on the island, where their little slice of heaven stood. She kept them there, not daring not face him when she said the words.

He only waited.

"When you were about to leave from under the mountain," she started, "You showed the first time you saw me not as human, but Fae. And you knew then, we were mates."

She felt Rhys tense behind her, but she only went on,

"And although I have accepted that the King broke our bond, I have to ask all the same—"

"Feyre, I know what you're asking, and—"

She rushed in before he could finish. "—Wait. Just let me say this. I want you to know, I don't care about any broken bond. I love you no matter what." Feyre finished with a sigh.

But she was feigning her indifference to ease the tightness in her chest. Because she was anything but unconcerned.

No, Feyre yearned with everything she was for their bond to be there. With all her soul, she still wanted to still be bound to Rhys.

He was quiet for a while, his hands finally slipped from her waist, slowly turning her to meet him.

"If you're finished," he quirked a brow when they were face to face, "Can I say what I wanted to in the first place?"

Feyre nodded. His eyes seemed to darken on her pout, but he continued, "I was going to tell you, that without our mating bond, my love for you will always remain."

Feyre opened her mouth.

"—But that's not all." Rhys tugged her chin upwards, so those breathtaking eyes could shine down upon her, "So I hope you don't mind when I tell you now, despite whatever the King might have done, or tried, our bond remains."

She shuddered at his words, her eyes closing in pure relief. But Rhysand was not finished,

"We were always bound, Feyre," he tucked her into the crook of his neck when she shook harder, "That's the one thing not even death itself could take from us."

She was full on crying when he kissed the top of her head. And she swore the waves themselves stilled.

"But how can you be sure?" she parted. Rhys pretended to weigh her question.

"You yourself said you could hear it," he surveyed her with a challenging brow, "Earlier when you were convincing me to listen to what I knew to be true?"

Feyre stilled at his knowing look, "Did you always know?"

He nodded, "I was just waiting for you to."

"Really?"

"Mhmm."

She lowered her brows at him, preparing to scold Rhys for keeping something so important from her for the sake of self-awareness.

But he was already kissing her.

His lips were warm and soft as they prodded at Feyre's to open. Which she did willingly, savoring the taste citrus and sea that was uniquely Rhys.

She urged herself further into his arms. He groaned at her insistence, standing to take them to deeper water.

He laid her atop the stilled water, holding her on the surface with nothing but a hand to his back.

Feyre still wore a thin sleep shirt. And she was about to ask what he was doing when his mouth devoured her chest.

"No more ill memories," He moved to her other breast, the rough cloth adding to the sensation of it all, "No more regrets," His hot tongue continued to trace the swell through the drenched fabric. "I want to spend this new eternity tasting you; memorizing you."

Feyre gasped when he took her nipple into his mouth; sucking on the hard peak.

The water's warmth melded with her own body temperature as he peppered kisses along her stomach.

All the while his hands supported her weight.

The shirt barely covered her hips, and Rhys tugged the fabric upward to expose her lower half.

Feyre trailed her hands from his shoulders to his neck. Wetness rushed to her legs with every shift of muscle.

"I want to take every minute to love and worship you," he spoke as if he was reciting a prayer, drifting lower yet, "And I want us never to be parted again."

Feyre groaned when he met the wetness between her legs; teasing her. And despite the heat coursing through her veins; the utter need for her mate won over all.

Her mate.

Feyre smiled at the thought.

Truly, Rhys was hers. And she, his.

Bound now and forever.

"What are you smiling about?" Rhys asked. Feyre drifted from his hold to stand.

His eye went glazed to her form, a slow grin forming as he no doubt found her breasts peaked beneath her shirt.

Feyre merely slipped into his arms, stroking his forearm as she pretended to mull over his question.

"I was just thinking, now that we're mates. If something else remains true as well." She met his stare, finding his violet eyes as hungry as hers.

"Whatever you want, it's always been yours."

Feyre nodded. And the words that came next had no help of stopping, "I remember once asking for a crown."

Rhys didn't answer for a moment. He merely stroked the side of her face, his eyes more liquid than Feyre had ever seen them.

"And I was ready to give it to you then, Feyre darling."

"And now?"

"And now—" He paused to brush his lips along her ear, "Now you'll be the High Lady I've always been waiting for."

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 **A/N More to come! Hope you guys have enjoyed it so far :) Thanks for reading and reviewing.**


	16. Chapter 16

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"It's here."

Feyre glanced up to find Rhysand's smiling face. She surveyed his tan skin, even richer from their time on the island. And then her eyes lingered to the open buttons of his simple shirt; how she longed to drag her tongue along the muscles there….

"Can't we stay a bit longer?" she said, stretching on the long couch. Feyre didn't miss how his own attention lingered on the rise and fall of her breasts, her open mouth as she groaned.

But Rhys dragged his gaze back to her face a moment later. "Of course we could," he chuckled, "But Mor and the others would appreciate knowing you're safe. And I'm afraid we can't ignore the aftermath of the King's death any longer."

The words effectively forced out any desire that had once been coursing Feyre's blood. Ah yes, the King.

During their four-day stay on the island, she and Rhys had hardly taken time for sleep and nourishment, favoring other activities they could catch up on.

But during the times in between, Feyre didn't miss how Rhys skittered around her questioning of their last moments with the King.

Now, with the stark reminder of their inner circle eagerly awaiting their return; on figuring out what the world had become without the King, Feyre had no choice but be vaulted back to reality.

So huffing her agreement, she rose to stretch again, arms raising over her head in a long sigh, "I suppose I would like to see them all." Her hand fell back to her sides.

He held out his hand as she grabbed her pack. It was filled with the journals she hadn't read in the days she and Rhys had stayed on the island.

The small free time she had not exploring the island—or Rhysand for that matter—Feyre _had_ been trying to piece together her past life.

Rhysand helped in any way he could, answering any questions about events she couldn't quite recall, but Feyre saw how hurt him to relive such.

So she would have to connect the remaining dots by herself.

"Do you think they'll allow me on the ship? Aren't women bad luck on vessels?" Feyre teased as they met the harsh sunlight. Rhysand tossed her a good-natured grin as they made their way towards the beach.

Where there, a ship and crew waited to take them home.

Home. It was a strange word to think of. Since the southern court was more like a second home to Rhys.

The real Night Court, he had explained days past, had been ransacked by the King long ago. The seven kingdoms, with the High Lords that had once governed, were no longer; disbanded centuries ago.

The world was different now. Any Fae that hadn't been smart enough to go underground after the war, had been hunted down by the King and slaughtered for fear of threat.

But now both Rhys and Feyre would have to adjust to the times. To the strange new rules the world had adopted after so many years without Fae at the forefront.

And she knew out of experience, that things could not simply become normal.

But still, she wondered if they could restore the North continent to its former glory: to unearth whatever remaining High Lords were in hiding, if any. Or at least track down any court decedents and reinstate them as High Lord…

But Feyre pushed the thought aside. For there was a very real kingdom awaiting their return.

"This crew already knows of you," Rhys answered. Feyre's brows rose in question. "I kept in contact even after I kicked the habit of piracy," he grinned, "Most of them were fleeing from the King or the expectations of their families. If ever I needed to travel across seas without my inner circle knowing, I called upon them."

Feyre felt her own smile erase as she absorbed his words. "What did you ever have to keep from your inner circle?"

"Things that would only bore you."

"Rhys," Feyre tugged on his arm to stop.

"What?"

"Are you saying you took off to retrieve me without even telling your sister?"

"Mor isn't my sister—"

"But they are your _family_ , Rhys." She said even as he huffed out a breath, " _Our_ family. No wonder they didn't want me to leave that ship! They probably thought I would never come back, like you nearly didn't."

He pressed his lips together. "Can we talk about this later? They're waiting."

Feyre narrowed her eyes, feeling anything but leaving it there. But they were only just reunited…

And there was much more to be considered between her and Rhys besides the secrets he from his family.

From her.

So she merely let him lead her through the jungle without another word. And as the foliage cleared to reveal the white beach she knew so well, Rhysand simply pointed to the horizon.

"See there?"

She squinted her eyes to see better. But sure enough, splaying against the golden ring of the sunset, Feyre saw to where Rhys motioned.

And there, dipping and swaying in the turquoise ocean, she beheld what was to be the ship that would take them both home.

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"We thought you drowned," Feyre heard a male greet Rhys as soon as he hit deck.

"You're lucky I didn't or this world would likely go to hell without me."

"As arrogant as ever."

Feyre paused on the ladder from the hull below. She peered over the edge, through the railing slats to keenly observed whoever this new male was.

He had his back turned as Rhysand and the stranger shared a few small words. But Feyre didn't quite want to confront whoever her mate was talking to.

Even if he was undoubtedly Fae, with hair as rich as the autumn leaves, his stance ten-fold more refined than any human's, she was nervous.

Nervous because she didn't know how to introduce herself in accordance to Rhys. Were they mates? Were they High Lord and Lady? Or simply as they once were before everything.

She simply didn't know as Rhys sent a silent message down their bond when she still wavered.

' _Well, are you going to come up and say hi?'_

Feyre shivered to hear him. The bond now fully intact, she was still not completely used to her mate being able to send thoughts so easily, but Feyre remained still.

Waves rolled and crashed against the hull, dampening her skirts as she lingered on the ladder. But Feyre couldn't care less as she observed this stranger. He seemed familiar somehow, even if she couldn't put her finger on it.

Rhys must have sensed her hesitation, mixed with confusion, as he silent conveyed with eyes alone for her to join them. She shook her head.

But the other male turned fully, trying to figure out where Rhys' attention had gone to. Then Feyre gaped.

"How have things been, Lucien?" Rhys suddenly asked out loud for Feyre's benefit. She only watched as Lucien glanced sidelong to where she unknowingly remained out of sight.

Rhys shook his head with a low chuckle at her antics. Feyre only stared at Lucien, but silent scolding her mate that he could have warned her.

Lucien must have sensed something amiss, from the way he observed Rhysand with slightly-slatted eyes; his magical one whirling to try and sense what was amiss. But he said nothing to the matter.

"As best as they can be, considering the circumstances." Was all Lucien answered. Perhaps sensing what—or who Rhys was waiting on. "How is—" He swallowed before continuing, "—Feyre? I heard rumors of what happened with the King. I give my condolences for what you both had to go through. I wish you would have allowed me to help."

Lucien could hardly choke out her name. Rhysand just gave a slow nod, his own guilt filing his expression, "I know you wanted to help. But Feyre had made her decision clear, and I didn't want anyone going against it." Rhys said a bit tersely. Protective as always.

"I understand," Lucien nodded. "Now I will be happy to help with whatever you need. I just want to know if she's alright."

Rhys' jaw tensed slightly. And Feyre realized that the males' relationship was as closer as ever. Meaning, not close at all.

But she could tell Lucien's concern for her was from genuine friendship. And so did Rhys as he finally hummed down the bond to her, _"Ready?"_

Feyre sent back her silent reply.

Rhys sucked in a breath, and gestured to where Feyre finally stepped from the side of the hull. "See for yourself."

Lucien followed Rhys' gaze, slowly, agonizingly so. And as soon as it settled on her, he went absolutely rigid.

Feyre watched as his gaze widened in complete shock when he saw her. His prosthetic eye whirled from her face to her arms and then back again, as if trying to assess if this was indeed, the female he remembered.

"Hello," she said rather sheepishly. Rhysand merely bent to offer Feyre a hand to step closer. She took in willingly, but her eyes never left Lucien.

He had yet to say a single word as Feyre dusted herself off and waited.

"I can hardly believe it," Lucien finally whispered; shuddering out a breath as he took her in.

Feyre felt the urge to hug him. But quickly realized, neither males would particularly appreciate the gesture.

So she just stood as still as a statue. "How have you been?"

Lucien shook his head, his magical eyes still whirling as it rested to her tattoo on her wrist.

"Rhys told me you were…. restored. But seeing you now. Seeing you as High Fae, once more, it's unbelievable."

Feyre gave as forced smile at the words _. High Fae._ But Rhysand remained as still as ever; letting her figure things out for herself.

"It feels good to be back to normal." said, "And its so good to see you again, Lucien."

The male in question gave a broad grin. Her mate's hand at her back went a bit taut, but it remained, soft; warm, as Lucien sputtered on.

"I am sorry for the events that brought us here. But I am happy to see you again. More than happy."

She nodded, "I see you've taken to piracy. Who would have thought the male I met at the spring court would favor such a life?" Feyre smiled politely. But both males' faces turned starkly

white.

Right. Feyre's time in the Spring Court was not one that was fondly looked at, as Rhysand physically tensed beside her. Thankfully, Lucien rushed to fill the silence.

"Things became complicated after the war. So I did what had to be done. Although piracy was an extreme compared to being a sentry, the seas have helped me keep my mind off…. a many of things."

Feyre gave Lucien a soft smile; not particularly understanding what he meant. But as she turned to the male beside her, Rhys quickly changed the subject, "We have to sail to the south immediately, Lucien," he ordered more than asked. "I'm afraid we may have to figure out a way to stop another war."

Lucien's acknowledged the order with the dip of his head, but his eyes remained on Feyre, "Maybe a uniting is what we need." He looked between her and Rhys, "A renewal of vows, long since forgotten. To remind the world just who it once was."

Feyre felt blush rise to her cheeks at the mention of vows. The one thing she and Rhys hadn't discussed on the island was their marital status.

Through centuries of parting and uniting, of lying and scheming just to stay alive, both their identities had been changed and altered.

So Feyre wondered in the eyes of the gods, and their world….

Was she and Rhys still married?

"A wedding is worth considering," Feyre replied to Lucien when Rhys made it clear he wasn't going to. The fox-eyed male's gaze shifted between them, a hint of pity settled on her stoic face.

She knew that worried look. Feyre merely raised her chin to Lucien's stare. "But there's much to do in the meantime," she said brightly. That's what a High Lady would have said.

But her heart ached when Rhysand merely stated,

"Feyre is right, there's much more that needs to be done. Any thought to a wedding can wait."

Lucien gave a curt nod, and she felt Rhys's grip slide to her waist. Her skin ignited at the simple touch, but her mind still lingered.

Wedding. Not a renewal of vows.

Feyre had purposely offered the word, waiting for Rhys, for _Lucien,_ to correct her. That she and her mate were already married, and that another wedding would simply be a ceremony for the people.

But no such words came.

"Lucien, if you would excuse us," Rhys started, "I would like a moment to see Feyre settled in. I will see you on deck in an hour." He gave a tight smile before as he ushered her away.

And as Feyre glance dover to shoulder to Lucien, she didn't know if it was pity or disappointment in his gaze as it lowered in sadness.

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Feyre snapped her eyes forward as Rhys lead to what she hoped were rather large quarters. She didn't want to feel cooped up, and she didn't want to make Lucien's job as captain harder by lingering on deck and distracting the men.

But the only thing she could think of, despite the loads to do once they hit solid land, was the look on Rhysand's face after Lucien suggested marriage.

And it wasn't entirely happiness.

"So, here we are again, Feyre," Rhys said as he opened the captain's quarters. "This ship isn't as decorated as what Cassian commands. But this vessel is much larger. Will it do?" he teased, and the lightness in his voice made her chest fill with the same.

"I suppose it will have to do." Feyre managed to tease back.

The ship's quarters were spacious indeed. With a sitting room with furniture that was attached to the ever-shifting floor. And a massive bed that very much rivaled the tiny cot she had spent time on in Cassian's quarters, it would more than do.

"There is a basin to wash in, and a closet with new garments." Rhys looked to her tattered; waterworn tunic and pants. "I need to see to a few things, and then I'll join you in time for dinner."

"Alright," Feyre gulped, "See you then."

He gave her a light kiss before closing the door behind. And as she glanced around to the grimy wall of windows, or to the door she didn't Rhys had locked from the outside, Feyre suddenly felt like nothing more than cargo.

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She was left with her books and a small plate of fruit and bread as the sun sunk lower and lower. Feyre rose only to walk and stretch her legs. But despite wanting to explore all the ship had to offer, she would feel nothing but intrusive to leave the quarters.

 _But you are his High Lady._ The voice in the back of her head murmured. Feyre clenched her eyes to that voice. To the side of her that wanted to scream at Rhys for taking them off that island before they ever got things straightened between them.

Had the King broke more than their mating bond? Was she and Rhys not married any longer? And could such a thing as annulment stop Feyre from being able to reclaim her title?

Even if she wanted to be the person who didn't care about labels or terms, such things became rather important when her mate was not just a Prince, but a once High Lord that had to hide his title from fear of death.

Only when darkness had enveloped both sea and sky, did Feyre hear the door crack open. Her core tightened to see Rhysand had lost his tunic and slacks in favor of some lighter shirt and trousers that showed off his well-earned muscles.

But all her lust evaporated at his knitted brows.

"What's wrong?"

"We can't go to the south as we planned." Rhys sighed he sat on the stiff bed. Feyre sat up straighter.

"Why not?"

"It's not safe," He ran a hand through his hair, "The refugees are restless to return to the North. But it is absolute anarchy up there. And Mor has only barely grasped onto keeping the peace. We would only undermine that by returning now."

"Then perhaps if I went north and—"

"We're not going north." Rhysand suddenly snapped. Feyre narrowed her eyes at him, feeling fire and anger spit along her veins.

She stood from the bed in one movement. Rhysand quieted at the sight.

"And who's going to stop me?" she asked.

He met her stare with lowered brows, and immediately softened, "I only mean, what do you think the people would do if their King's murderer returned?"

"I don't know?" She threw her hands up, "Probably praise you for saving them? Not even his closest councilors liked him, Rhys. I'm sure you'd be welcomed with praise." She waited for his next excuse. Rhys lips only tightened.

"I wasn't talking about me, Feyre."

Her eyes remained on his steady features, trying to dissect his meaning. "What are you saying,"

Rhys stood from the bed, taking Feyre to join him.

She did, although keeping a healthy foot of space between them so they could talk without Feyre wanting to jump his bones. She already felt her anger dissipating and turning o something else.

Rhys' brows feathered at the sight, perhaps sensing that he had forgotten for a bit, that Feyre was not any mere member of his court that could be talked over.

But he quickly moved on as he angled himself, "I didn't want to burden you," he said, "It would have been too much to handle; our history, the King, and then telling you that—"

"Just say it." Feyre had thought all along, had assumed that Rhys had killed the King to save her. And that the ache of a wound had been from Tamlin attempting to take something from Rhys in return.

But she had never, ever thought that it had been the other way around, that she was the one to have struck the killing blow. And Feyre didn't know how to feel about the revelation.

"So that means I'm the cause of all these uprisings." she stated with a blink, "The people think I kept them from justice. That the King deserved a trial?"

"No," Rhys clutched her hands, "I was ready to die for you in that hall, but you saved me, Feyre. You saved all of us. If the King was kept alive, it would have never ended."

"How did it happen," she asked starkly, her breath staggered "—In the end."

Rhys only hesitated.

"You said Tamlin escaped," Feyre said firmer, "So could he be the one creating this uproar, spreading rumors in our stead?"

Perhaps that Feyre had killed the King in cold blood, that she was indeed the feared temptress hungry for nothing more than power.

Feyre started to shake with the revelation.

"Tamlin can go to hell," Rhys growled, "He ran as soon as the King fell from his own spell-tainted dagger, and I took out the guards. No one will take his word seriously. Everyone knows the King committed much filthier of crimes."

"Like what."

Rhysand bit his lip, perhaps mulling over the best way to tell her. "We think the King magically tied you to him. So I could not kill him without killing you. So any injury he sustained, you would too."

Feyre let out a whoosh of breath. "That bastard really did think of everything, didn't he?"

Rhys only went on, "When I realized what was going to happen to you if the King died—" he broke off with a lingering sigh, "—I thought you were surely gone. But I still rushed you out of the palace. I was so weak, I don't know how I managed. But I chartered a boat and a healer as fast I could; to at least get you out of that capitol. I couldn't let you die there. Where he…kept you. I wouldn't let it happen."

Feyre swallowed the lump in her throat, but managed to ask, "So when I closed my eyes, you thought I was never going to wake up."

Rhys nodded. "Those first two times I had wiped your memory, I had gotten used to you not recognizing me. But on that ship, surrounded by our inner circle just after I thought it was all over; only for you to say you didn't know me—" his jaw clenched "—I couldn't take it. I had to leave, to sort out how I was going to get through this a third time."

Feyre finally placed a gentle hand on his arm. Rhys looked as if he was trying to keep his composure as he wiped a rough hand down his face.

So Feyre slid closer to wrap her arm around his side, wishing for a way to make everything better; to forget the world uprising and just be _them_ again. Rhys merely continued,

"Amren speculated the King must have unknowingly latched the spell to your siren, not you," he explained, "The part of you _he_ created. So when you killed him—"

"I killed my siren," Feyre mused out loud. Rhys nodded.

"The King had planned on you using that spell tainted dagger on me. But when it was turned onto him—although you two were tied—without the actual steel touching your skin, you could heal from your wound."

She let out a long breath. Rhysand only wrapped his arm around her, tugging Feyre closer as if reminding himself she had lived.

They both had.

"But this is all speculation," Rhys glanced down to her when Feyre remained silent. "Since the King is dead and we can't ask him for the truth, we are left to pick up the pieces we can."

"I say we hunt down Tamlin." Feyre said suddenly. "We could demand him to set the record straight and stifle the riots for good. Maybe he knows a spell so I can get all my memories back as well."

Rhys let out a long breath, "No one can use that spell book other than the King. And Lucien tells me Tamlin has gone underground, waiting for things to blow over and the plead his case."

"So is that why you called on Lucien, and not your own family? You wanted to make sure Tamlin had been run into the ground?"

"You sound upset?"

"Not about you keeping the truth about the King. I'm upset you keep locking out your family even now, Rhys. Keep locking me out."

"I'm not—"

"Let me finish." Feyre suddenly snapped. Rhys closed his mouth a moment later, not quite shock filling his eyes as a seductive quiet wrapped around the room.

Feyre felt that same heat in her blood; like a beckoning furnace begging to be set aflame. It was the bond growing taught between them; reminding Rhys that though Feyre had seen changes...

They were still equals. And she demanded his attention as such.

Feyre quickly clamped down on that feeling. Ignored the lust that filled her vision as she watched the desire cloud his own as she gained her bearings.

"You claim we're equals," she murmured, "You said you were waiting for you High Lady. And now that I'm here, and we can finally all be together, you only keep pushing the people who love you most aside. It has to stop now, Rhys."

"I know," he blinked, shoulders heaving with his own acceptance. "I keep telling myself you're not your siren. That you're really here. But sometimes I—"

Feyre read it in his eyes even if he couldn't finish the thought.

Rhysand wished that she were the female he fought beside on that battlefield in Prythian. He wanted the old Feyre back.

But knowing Rhys, he would never admit as such.

So she merely turned his face towards her. His violet eyes were wet with ready tears, his dark brows drawn as she swiped a stray piece of hair from his forehead and said,

"I may not be the female you remember. But a part of her still lives; the part that sacrificed herself for you and her people, and still would."

His lips wobbled lightly. Feyre added softer. "Just give me time to remember, Rhys. And we will be alright again. I know it."

He nodded firmly, covering her hand with his own. "I don't want you to think I don't love you as you are now. But I do wish to confide to the part of you that _does_ remember." His thumb stroked the backside of her palm as his voice went lower, "Remembers how it was between us before."

Feyre felt her heart flutter as Rhys brought the underside of her wrist to his mouth. His tongue darted out to taste the flesh there.

"Then show me," she murmured.

Rhys blinked up at her, showing his canines in response as he ever so gently scraped his teeth along her lifeblood.

Feyre gasped at the feeling, her eyes closing in pure surrender as he let his lips drift upwards, to the crook of her elbow. And even higher, to her upper arm as Rhys draped the rest behind of her limb him.

Feyre didn't know the spot of skin could elicit such pleasure as he dragged his teeth along the taught muscles. Then to where her left breast hung beneath her thin sleep shirt.

He let his nose tease her peaked nipple before he let his hot breath wash over the fabric. Feyre let her head drop with a low groan.

And before she knew what was happening, she was in his lap.

Her mouth was upon his instantly. Urging herself closer, but never close enough as she ground her hips alongside his own.

He let out a feral growl when she found him hard and ready for her. His hand came to cup the back of her neck; Feyre's hair becoming a tangled mess in his fingers.

Rhys angled her mouth better to his. Feyre opening willingly and earnestly, not having the energy to tell him what she needed out loud as he lowered her to the bed.

She didn't know when or how their clothes had been shed. But Feyre didn't care as she found his lips once more. His low growl reverberated against her very soul when he nudged himself inside her.

Feyre could do nothing but hold on for dear life, feeling as much as he did, the unrequited need for each other. It was wild, uncontrollable. As savage as the rolling waves between them.

And with each thrust, that force tightened between them. Their bond.

They only parted to face each after plummeted over that ledge. It had been fast and unforgiving, but she knew it was what they both needed as their eyes locked.

And just like before, her mate seemed to read Feyre's mind as he met her stare. Equally.

"I am eternally yours, Feyre darling," Rhys breathed, clutching her closer, "No matter which way the world may turn. I am yours."

"As you are mine," she nodded, understanding then, no matter how the world tried to test them, past or future. Feyre and Rhys would always weather whatever storm came their way.

Together.


	17. Chapter 17

The ship rocked and creaked as Feyre lay in bed. Rhys slept soundly by her side, his light breath echoing with his steady heartbeat. Her hand lay over that very spot on his chest, hoping the slow rhythm would perhaps lull her to sleep. But to no avail.

Feyre's thoughts still lingered on what they were about to face. They couldn't go south, that decision had been made. Rhys had sent word to Mor that in the meantime, he and Feyre would quell uprisings in the north as well as they could.

While tracking down Tamlin.

And no matter how Feyre kept telling herself the northern people couldn't hate her forever, or that Tamlin would be found and the record set straight, her chest fluttered each time she thought about facing both entities.

"What's wrong?"

She craned her neck to see violet eyes blinking at her. And no matter what anxieties or fears plagued her mind, Feyre felt at ease under her mate's attention.

"I didn't mean to wake you with my restless thoughts." She gave Rhys a small smile in the dim light. But he did not return it, reading the worry in her eyes instead.

"Tell me," was all he said.

She let out a long breath. "I'm just thinking of how to we're supposed to explain ourselves to the people. You are the enemy prince after all, and my word became useless the moment I plunged a dagger in the King's heart."

"Hey," he murmured as she slowly faced him. In the near darkness, she still saw how his lips pressed at her words. But his expression was solid; determined. "They will come to see the sacrifice you made for them. I promise."

She nodded solemnly. He merely brushed his lips against her temple, and instantly, his warmth bloomed along her skin; her veins. But he only pulled back to add more fiercely,

"But even if they don't, even if we can't find Tamlin, even if this world goes to hell in a handbasket despite our efforts… things _will_ quiet eventually. Give it time, remember?" He quirked a brow, repeating the words she had once told him.

Feyre merely studied the lines of his face. From his dark brows to the rough-shaven line of his jaw, barely kempt from their time at sea. And even in the bare shadow of night, she would always be breathless from the sight of her mate. This time was no exception.

Rhys grinned under her stare, reading it for what it was. His white teeth caught the little light in the room as he leaned his forehead to hers. "I love you more than life itself. And things will be alright again."

"But where will we go, Rhys? We will be on the streets once we land." Surely, they couldn't take up in the northern castle, the Lords wouldn't allow it.

Feyre couldn't live in the city. The reek of it still haunted her dreams of her times in the slums. And she doubted Rhys had the current sources or want to buy a townhouse uptown.

Her mate merely shrugged. "We could stay with any of my trusted spies. And I do have other friends rather than Az and Cassian, you know. Someone will take us in until we can figure out other arrangements."

"I never said you didn't have friends. But you must know a target will be on our backs as soon as we land."

"What's new, huh?" Rhys chuckled, but she saw the solemn look that swallowed his handsome features. He was as tired as running as Feyre. Perhaps more, because Rhys had been running from his past for so long. But her mate merely let out a restful sigh moment later, "We'll figure it out, Feyre. We always do."

She nodded to that, sensing the conversation over. Feyre turned onto her back, staring at the wood paneled ceiling; where just above, the crew hustled to bring them to the Northern port.

Her mind reminded her they were nearing land with each passing crest of water. She should have been excited. But Feyre had to swallow the lump in her throat at the thought, even as the shift in the bed told her Rhys had returned to slumber.

But she could not sleep. Just thinking of what the North had become after the King's death sent dread shooting down Feyre's spine.

Would the citizen of the north blame Feyre for their sovereigns parting? Or thank her for ridding them of a madman?

Either way, she knew she would be getting little to no sleep that night. Rhysand's slow breathing couldn't even convince her eyes shut. But the sound at least steadied her racing thoughts.

He still held her hand, even while unconscious. For her palm was still pressed against his heart once more. She clenched the fabric of his shirt there, only to ground herself.  
"Give it time," Feyre murmured to the dark. It was becoming their motto recently. To give her body and mind the chance to heal from the King and his spell's wounds.

To give their world a chance to heal.

Rhys squeezed her hand in his sleep, as to utter the same.

The four days they had spent on the ship, that was how he always slept. Some part of Feyre had to be touching him. If not several parts, preferably.

Minutes or hours past, and she soon heard his soft snoring. Feyre couldn't help but huff at the sound; thankful for the reprieve of her guilt-ridden mind and a chance for a lightening in her chest.

Rhys rarely snored, so Feyre must have tired him out enough in their most recent round of love-making. Enough that he could find sleep in mere moments. The thought made her smile broaden.

"I heard that," a dark voice rumbled through the mattress.

Feyre snapped up her mental shields the same time she spun to see Rhys' eyes still shut, but a slow smirk spreading across his lips. "And for the record," he all but growled, "You have _not_ tired out."

"Says the male who was just snoring."

He laughed at that, the sound dark and appealing as he pulled Feyre into the crook of his arm. She pouted when he remained on his side of the bed, instead of proving just how awake he _could_ become.

But as always, her mate thought of nothing but Feyre first. Not even her own desires from him could win over in sake of her health. Rhys no doubt sensed how her mind needed reprieve. Just as much as her body did.

"Sleep, Feyre," he hushed, nuzzling her closer. She closed her eyes just as Rhys started to stroke the arm that lay draped across his chest.

And either by her mind's pure exhaustion, or the will of the male beside her, Feyre finally found rest.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Feyre woke, she found the bed bare. Her arm shot out to the empty space, feeling the sheets stark with the morning cold. So that meant Rhys must have ventured on deck, rising as early as the sun to help the crew in final preparations.

Whatever she and Rhys were to find at said at Northern port, was unknown. Since no one knew what had befallen the north without the King to rule.

Spies had stopped sending messages, merchants had stopped sailing in fear of the unknown. All contact between the continents had practically halted in its' tracks.

Feyre didn't know if it was because the other Lord's taken up power, creating ten times more chaos than the Kings. Or if the people taken the opportunity to overthrow and create a democracy of their own.

The last scenario was preferable over the other thousands that spun in her mind, mocking her practically every minute of the trip north.

 _Stop worrying._ A familiar voice stroked her mind. Feyre grumbled to that very same order as she drudged up her mental shields. Exhaustion made them fall.

 _Where are you?_ Was her silent response as Feyre finished washing her face in the nearby basin.

 _Come and find me_. Was Rhysand's cheeky response.

She just rolled her eyes before changing into the only semi-suitable tunic and pants Feyre could find on the island. Perhaps it was a bit racy with its cut-out panels along the sides and between the breasts, but she stopped caring as soon as Feyre slipped out of the captain quarters, and into the open.

Even in early morning, the rays of the sun were hot with near summer, the brightness shocking her awake.

As she adjusted to the jostling deck, her ears no longer heard just the crashing of waves but something even more shocking.

The men were…..singing?

The shanty song was sung by every sailor. No matter station or position as they worked in tune.

Whatever the words, they were muted. But the melody was unmistakably forceful, a sweeping rhythm that urged everything forward.

And as Feyre stepped from the concealment of the double steps of the helm, she realized why the crewmembers ignored her as she passed, why their movements were hurried and their lyrics rushed as she squinted to the horizon.

Land.

The slip of green in the distance was barely noticeable. But it was growing larger with every note the sailors sung.

Feyre might as well have been invisible as she followed the railing, gaping at the sight of so many men working as one. They only sang louder.

 _I can't see you._ Feyre spoke through the bond, wanting to see where Rhys fit in such spectacle. But he did not answer.

So Feyre continued her search, enchanted not only by the unadulterated concentration of the crewman on deck, but the slews that scattering the nets in the air.

As she craned her neck to see better, Feyre saw every mast and sail being worked by several crew members. They were bringing up the canvass.

Moving along the ship, since no once had stopped her, Feyre felt the energy buzzing from every station. The excitement that roared off each working sailor singed along her veins as well. And she finally understood why Rhys had forgone sleeping to join in.

This kind of sailing was akin to flying.

"Fancy seeing you out and about."

Feyre spun to that voice, a light smile already on her face as Lucien stopped about six feet away, hands on his hips as he surveyed her. He wore a slim fitting captains jacket. The color burnished gold and green.

She looked over his shoulder to observe someone else steering the ship in Lucien's stead. The rest of the men hurried their movements as their captain joined lower deck.

Feyre just crossed her arms to Lucien's raised brows. "I would have come out sooner, if I thought your crew could handle a woman aboard."

Lucien gave her a bright laugh that alleviated the scar beneath his mechanical eye. The sight was a much-welcomed one.

"You don't see it bothering them now?" He gestured to where indeed, all of his men were hard at work, seeing to whatever their duties entailed. "I think that mate of yours must just wanted to keep you all to his self since you two are newly reunited. I can't blame him."

Feyre chuckled at the teasing, but Lucien's face remained towards sadness. Perhaps the topics of mates and living apart was one perhaps Lucien understood himself. She longed to ask him what he meant by the comment.

Then Feyre quickly remembered Lucien never being one that enjoyed his business being meddled in.

So she moved to another subject.

"Speaking of Rhys, where is he?" She eyed the many stations surrounding them, "You didn't throw him overboard, did you?"

"Sadly no," A silky voice echoed from above. Lucien's eyes went behind Feyre just as she turned to see Rhys dangling from a rope ladder. "Although," Her mate cocked his head as his boots hit deck, "Lucien nearly did what I said he should consider covering his scarred eye with a patch."

"As funny as ever, Rhys," Lucien returned. "But I actually have to give orders instead of playing." He said before returning the helm.

But Rhysand paid no care as he kept those violet eyes on Feyre. They were darkened by some unknown cause. Exhilaration of the air, perhaps.

Or something more as his eyes skittered along her tunic. To the deep vee that went between her breasts. Feyre raised her chin to his heated stare.

"You left me in a cold bed." Was all she said. Rhysand merely let go of the final rung of the ladder, before stalking towards her.

Every step was laden with power that made her heart flutter in anticipation. But even as Feyre observed her mate spectacularly shirtless as well as gloriously gleaming with sweat, she held her ground.

"I do apologize for that, Feyre darling." Rhys smirked, stopping as the sun splayed at his back, "But the wind was calling. And even I could not ignore it."

"You could have woken me. Show me how things work." Feyre glanced to where his wings usually protruded. He had always had them out while on their island. But today, they were nowhere in sight.

So she couldn't scold him for rousing early. Not really. Perhaps that's why he favored the sea so much. If he couldn't fly in those centuries of hiding from the King, then at least Rhys could have the wind against his face this way.

"I chose to let you sleep. You were snoring loud enough." He winked when her mouth fell open.

"I do not snore."

His brows rose in answer. But then a voice called from above: another crewman as he threw a line down to Rhys. Her mate caught it easily, pulling to weave it around his wrist.

"Then come up with me," He offered with and open arm.

"I was joking Rhys." She said, but Feyre still blinked at the disgusting height of the main mast. And then realized how it took three men to secure the other line further down. While Rhys held it with one arm.

And it made her veins sing with excitement. With desire.

"I promise I won't let you fall." Rhys quirked as she wavered.

Feyre paused. And as she glanced to the land they were about to face, her decision was made.

Stepping into Rhysand's arms, Feyre was not in the least bit embarrassed how tight she clutched his shoulders. His eyes lingered to where her chest pressed against his, to the cut of her tunic that showed the swell of her breast.

"Keep the eyes on the prize, High Lord," she reminded with a satisfied smirk.

Her mate just murmured into her hair, "I am." And then they were rising off of the ground.

Feyre couldn't help but let out a squeak when she looked down to see the lurching further and further away. But Rhysand's grip on her side never wavered.

"I thought you had overcome your fear of heights years ago," smirked Rhys just as they neared the mast she hoped they were aiming for. But they passed it a second later.

"Rhys!" Feyre clung to his side with all of her muscle, mind screaming from the increasing height. But the rope kept pulling them higher.

"Almost there," his breath coated the side of her cheek, a stark contrast to the wind that whipped across her face. But Rhysand kept to his word as the rope took them to the very top of the mast.

And that was when Feyre's mouth when absolutely dry.

The view was unbelievable as her mate steadied them upon the top post. But Feyre couldn't find the energy to tell Rhys how reckless that move had been, or even care that they were so high, the air had become colder, thinner.

Because she was in awe.

The North was a collection of green as it spread over the entire horizon. The shore could be observed to be a lush, rich color, from this view point. But perhaps even more breathtaking was the range of rugged, sharp mountains that rose behind it.

They seemed to kiss the clouds themselves.

But Feyre's splendor was sidetracked when she realized the King's capitol had never bore any mountains. Most of the north was relatively flat, actually.

"What part of the north is this?" Feyre managed to ask in the icy wind. He didn't answer right away, and she wondered if the wind had been too loud for him to hear.

Feyre finally turned to him, ready to repeat her question, but was halted in her tracks.

Rhysand's eyes were glued to shoreline. His body as still as stone as his gaze held something deeper than awe.

Then Feyre noticed the tears lining his eyes.

"Rhys?"

Her voice seemed to snap him from his thoughts as he quickly cleared his throat. "Sorry, Feyre darling, what did you say?"

She hovered on the expanse of his gaze, wanting to understand the meaning of that sudden longing. But Feyre merely said, "I asked what part of the North this was. I never knew there were mountains on the continent."

"We're a bit north of the capitol." Was his simple answer, tugging her closer to his side as the wind continued to slice like and icy blade. But Rhys remained like a statue. Unmoved. "Isn't this view spectacular? I wanted you to see it the moment I woke."

"Yes. Those mountains remind me of something ancient. Don't you think?" Even if Feyre knew he was holding back, she didn't want to push. But Rhysand's head still whipped to her at the simple comment.

Yet whatever words had jostled in his features, Rhysand's taught expression was replaced by that familiar smirking ego. "We're almost to port, if we don't want to hold things up, we should go back down."

At that, Feyre was jostled back into how high they were. The precariousness of their footing. "How do we get down?"

"I don't suppose you'd want to take the alternative route and skip port altogether?"

"What do you mean?" Feyre bit her lip as her mate's eyes darkened. But his answer was scooped her into his arms. She yelped when her feet were taken from under her.

"Do you trust me?" Rhys asked. But Feyre's eyes were glued to what lay below. It made her throat drop to her stomach.

"Yes." She breathed despite herself. Rhys hands adjusted around her as Feyre heard a sound that made her insides clench that much tighter.

The snap of her mate's wings was a song and a warning at the same time as she hiked herself higher into his arms. But he didn't move from the perch.

"Just say the word, Feyre and we can sail into the North the old-fashioned way. But I favor a spectacle, don't you?"

"Why doesn't that surprise me." She grumbled. But Feyre was stalling.

Rhys sensed as much as he let her peer over his shoulder to see the broad expanse of membrane, the strong muscle that remained taught in the wind.

He flared them wider for her, and she blinked in exhilaration. At their undiluted strength as Rhys waited on her answer.

And how could Feyre ever deny her mate a chance for flight?

"Say the word Feyre darling." He repeated, his voice brushing along her temple. Rhys's corded arms warmed her in the best way. Urging her to take part, to dally and dance.

And her soul gave its answer before Feyre even could. "Let's go."

The first jump was the worst. The sensation of dropping in open air made Feyre dig her fingers into the muscles of his shoulders. And turning to look, she saw the ship long gone behind them. Rhys just kept going and going, his massive wings seeming sturdier with each flap they gave.

"We aren't going back to the ship?" Feyre called over the rushing air. Rhys peered down to give her a wink.

"I thought you'd have more fun this way." He whispered for only her to hear. She clenched her teeth at his teasing. But gazing down to the ocean below, her jaw eased, and her stomach slowly rose from her butt to where it was actually supposed to be.

Rhys only continued to maneuver through the air so carelessly. The feeling of his body enchasing hers, the sight and sound of his magnificent wings called to her in the best way. But a thought edged at her mind.

"What was my reaction when I first flew?" Feyre peered up to ask, somehow sensing the experience had happened before. Centuries ago.

A small smile coated his lips as Rhys mouth lowered to answer. She shivered from the feeling of his lips at the shell of her ear, teasing.

"You had a similar reaction," he said, "But honestly, all I remember is how your body felt in my arms." Rhys clenched her tighter at that. And Feyre tried and failed not to mold into him.

"Rogue." She shot back, pointing lowered brows in answer. Rhys' smirk only broadened.

"But nothing compares to when you first flew yourself." He said more seriously, and Feyre went still.

"I had wings once?"

He nodded, as Feyre tried to remember the sensation. Of such muscles and membrane sprouting from her back, allowing her to ease through the air as Rhys did. And soon enough, Feyre _did_ recall the sensation.

She yearned to feel it for real. To be able to fly alongside her mate, experiencing true, unadulterated freedom that only the open air could give.

But the magic Feyre sometimes felt rushing along her veins remained, irritatingly still.

"Just one of many things to work on when we get settled." He murmured, seeming to answer Feyre's annoyance. "Your real magic has been kept asleep by the King for a long time. It will take time to come back. That includes your wings."

And she knew that her mate was right, and patience was key. But they were nearing port by that time, and the view struck all thought of questions from Feyre's mind.

Because the view was a magic all of its own.

The land that had once been just a merge of streets and foliage, buildings and a blur of a town, became increasingly close the more altitude Rhys and her lost.

"See the decorations?" Rhys said as they dropped closer and closer to a cobble stone port.

Feyre perhaps should have been preparing whatever speech or plan she was going to give these people, but her eyes were too busy taking in the splendor of the city sprawl.

Ships bobbed and moved to the swelling waves were lined with banner and flower.

With each increasing view Feyre was granted, her blood heated to see lavender and silver streamers hanging from every surface. Brick and lamp post. Doorways and market table.

Clearly there was some sort of holiday or event going on.

When Rhys finally landed them on the main port deck, Feyre saw only then noticed the citizens carrying on through the market. They were adorned in the same colors and flowers as the streets.

"What is this for?"

"Today is summer solstice." Her mate answered as they hit ground, the impact so smooth and fluid from muscle memory alone. And despite the fear she felt when they first took off, Feyre now missed the feeling of being in the air.

Or she just missed being encased in her mates' arms.

"It's summer solstice?" Feyre felt sluggish from the overload of senses. "But the holiday was erased long ago."

"Not quite." Rhys merely led her forward as she took in the splendor. And all of the outcomes Feyre had agonized over when she came North, she never would have expected to be this.

No one rushed them. No riots of angry citizens holding flame and picket to demand for her and her mate's blood.

No, it was the opposite. People parted for her and Rhys, giving broad smile and quick bows or curtsies before moving on. But her mate said nothing to fact, even as Feyre peered up to him in question.

Rhys just kept leading Feyre through the town, his face calm, his pace not quite rushed or lazy as he allowed her to absorb the atmosphere. And absorb she did.

The beautiful silk streamers made a canopy of color and texture along the main drag. The sides of the streets were filled with tables. Food and drink were offered along with tiny trinkets, beautiful wood workings or masterfully crafted jewelry.

The amount of _people_ was overwhelming. But as soon as anyone noticed Rhysand's tall frame, and Feyre's shocked expression, they opened up a path immediately.

And with each increasing face that looked at Feyre with a level of adoration and respect, the more her gut told her it was far more than summer solstice.

"Rhys, tell me what's going on." She said a bit warily, her eyes never leaving these people of every color and background as they stared.

As if she were not foreigner, but something else entirely.

And Feyre realized a town like this was impossible. It would have never been sustained by the King. The beauty of the citizens was rich and diverse. The architecture breathtaking and impossibly ancient.

The King would never have allowed it.

But it was eerily similar to the sacred town of Velaris in the south. The town Rhys had built in honor of…..

Feyre felt a bit of vertigo. Of a time long since past, but yet never truly forgotten.

As she blinked back to the people admiring her and her mate, Feyre realized what they murmured as she passed.

 _Curse Breaker._ Some whispered. But more gave Feyre a title more reverent than anything as Rhys finally smiled down to her.

"They might also be celebrating their High Lady's return."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

There was too much to look at. Too much to absorb as Feyre's newly heightened sigh flitted from sight to sight.

Velaris.

The real Velaris had survived.

It was as beautiful as ever. The mountains were just as she remembered, rising like great stone Gods to look over ocean and city alike. The glittering white and grey brick buildings were as pristine as ever.

And as Feyre spun to the male beside her, his face a mix of happiness and something else more….unworldly, she was unable to speak.

"We're almost there, just a bit more." Rhys said.

"You kept this form me?" Feyre astonished softly. He gave a small shrug, but she sensed his hidden pride.

"You were so worried with everything, I didn't want to add another to the pile."

"I wouldn't have." She gave a stern glare, Rhys glanced with a knowing look of his own.

"We both know that's a lie. You'd worry what everyone would think. How things were faring after the King. Or worry that we had been away so long. But now you see? Everything is fine."

"You know I hate surprises." She reminded, and even as he kept his head forward, she saw his cheeky grin. He merely squeezed her hand gently.

"Don't make me spoil the next surprise. Mor would have both our heads."

Feyre snapped her face upward, "What surprise." Rhys didn't answer.

And she only then realized not only had his previous shirtlessness been concealed, but he wore not the simple cloth undershirt he had favored in their time on the island…

But a tunic of opulent beauty. His trousers matched, trimmed to his long legs in dark navy, almost black.

Silver trim lined his cuffs, the seam down his chest and cross his neck. And Feyre's shock was increased tenfold when she saw what had just appeared magically upon Rhysand's dark head.

A crown of silver encrusted diamonds. In the center was a crescent jewel brighter than all the rest. The moon.

 _Rhys? What surprise?_ She ordered through the bond just as they stopped in front of a door she knew too well. Rhys motioned up the steps even as Feyre felt her feet turn to cement.

It couldn't be.

"Mor and Amren waiting to help you get ready." Was all Rhysand said, his eyes so bright a full of love that Feyre felt very real, very wet tears starting to coat her vision.

But through the blur, she realized her mate had his own case of wet eyes. But Feyre's mouth wasn't working.

"The ceremony happens in two hours. So you better hurry up and get inside or Mor will have both our hides." Her mate merely inclined his head, taking a few steps back from the dark picket gate Feyre had seen only in her dreams.

No not a dream. But a memory.

"I love you." He called as Feyre sniffled at what she already knew to be true. He merely winked before disappearing back into the crowd.

Feyre clutched the rail as she gathered her breath. Understanding what was about to happen.

Surprise indeed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Gods, you're in shock. I told Rhys not to spring this all on you. That I would ease you into it. But he insists on ruining everything."

Feyre blinked as Mor bustled around her. The princess just continued to press powder to her eyelids. Amren stood in the corner, handing Mor whatever concoction she barked next.

"I can't believe Velaris was never taken by the King. How?" Feyre's voice was far-off. She didn't know what was more shocking: the fact that the home she loved was a same as ever, or that Rhys had kept the fact from her as a wedding surprise.

Or that she was getting married.

Again.

Feyre didn't know where or how she and Rhys would renew their vows, since no one, not even Amren would divulge the venue. But as soon Feyre had entered the town house, Mor had surrounded her, asking what dress Feyre wanted to wear to the ceremony before hauling her into the bathing room to get ready.

"Well, you better start believing it," Amren cut with raised brows. "Because Cassian and Azriel are going to be here soon." The silver-eyed woman was dressed in a gown of liquid silver that matched her eyes. While Mor was in one of lavender that offset her golden skin and hair.

Feyre had yet to decide on what she herself was going to wear. Of course, she could wear the star-bejeweled masterpiece from star fall. But she just couldn't decide between the several that Mor had hauled from Rhysand's closet.

Feyre had been waited for her stomach to drop through during the hour Mor and Amren had answered her questions about how the real Velaris survived. They explained how the King ransacked what he thought was the Night Court, but it had been the court of nightmares.

And sensing what was to come, Rhys decided to move his court southward. In hopes of preserving the secret from the King.

Feyre herself, kept waiting for her nerves to get the better of her. For what she assumed, was about to be the biggest wedding the entire Night Court had ever seen.

But no anxiety came.

All Feyre thought of was her and Rhys' first wedding.

It had only just been them, since Feyre hadn't wanted a huge ceremony like Ianthe and Tamlin had planned in the Spring Court.

No, both she and Rhys had wanted that rite to be absolutely private, only the priestess to officiate.

But after what their world had been through, all the tearing and splitting from the King and the war, it made sense for she and Rhys to make a statement through a uniting. For Fae and human alike.

And the more she thought about the spectacle, about the carefully constructed surprise her mate had kept concealed until she was finally, _truly_ home, the more Feyre felt her shock being replaced by something else.

Something lighter.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I think that's a stunning choice." Mor smiled as she beheld Feyre in her dress of choice. Amren even nodded appreciatively to the form-fitting silver gown.

The high neckline was encrusted with thousands of sparkling jewels that kissed Feyre's collar bones. More delicate gems trimmed the long-sleeved cuffs and a rather ostentatious train that whispered along the floor with each step.

But the one characteristic that had sold Feyre on the dress in the first place, was the low, plunging back.

The remaining fabric magically hugged the front and sides of her body perfectly; expertly. The same jewels that trimmed the gaping back, also collected in one long string across the top. A single star-shaped jewel hung from it, low enough to brush between her shoulder blades.

Only after she was fully dressed, did Feyre ask Mor where Rhysand even found such spectacular dresses. Mor had shrugged, saying she inquired the same question time and time again, but he never would tell.

"I'll have to ask him myself," She smiled as Mor nodded. But then Amren's eyes fell to the doorway.

"Does that mean we're ready?" A soft voice called.

Feyre spun to that voice, to find Elain in palest of lavender dress. And at the sight of her sister's peaked ears and sharpened features, Feyre's breath caught.

"I almost didn't recognize you." Feyre blinked at her stunning sister, High Fae once more.

Elain merely glanced down to herself. "Yes, well. After the King died, Nesta and I were…changed again. And our memories restored. Although both took time."

Feyre nodded, understanding what that flat tone, and lack of Nesta's company meant. Their eldest sister was back to her normal cheery self.

"I didn't know." Feyre stated simply. Elain didn't answer so Feyre added, "How are you faring?"

"Just fine." Elain nodded, "You'd be surprised to know Nesta is attending. Since it seems like there a competition for who is walking you down the aisle, I just wanted to say good luck before I head down. As for who will win, my bet's on Cassian."

Feyre gave a low chuckle to that, thankful for Elain lightening a subject. For no wedding day could be perfect after all. But Feyre was just happy both her sisters were there. That was more than enough.

"You look stunning, by the way." Elaine said more seriously, "Your High Lord won't know what hit him."

Feyre gave a small smile as Elain came closer to look to the several diadems Mor had laid out on the counter. "You should wear that one. But that's just me."

Feyre looked to the piece Elain had pointed to. Mor nodded in agreement.

But it was Amren that stepped from the corner to place the collection of jeweled- stars onto Feyre's head.

"There." Those silver eyes gave Feyre a rare smile as Amren stated, " _Now_ you're ready."

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 **A/N One more chapter to come I think! This has been so much fun to write. Everyone who has read and commented, I appreciate you so much. Thank you :)**


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N This is going to be the last chapter for this one. Thank you for reading and reviewing. I appreciate it all :)**

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"Is anyone going to tell me where we're going?"

"It's not that far of a walk, but Az and Cassian are outside waiting to escort you." Mor smirked before gathering Feyre into her arms. "They must have come to an agreement to share the honor."

Peering over Mor's shoulder, Feyre smiled to her youngest sister. "Good luck." Elain called before she gently slipping out the front door. Amren just gave Feyre a small nod before practically dragging Mor out the door.

"See you soon." Mor gushed one last time, flying Feyre a kiss just before the two females left her standing in the townhouse entry.

After taking a few breaths, Feyre finally opened the door to find Cassian and Azriel waiting just as Mor had said.

The two males spun to her in sync, making her chest ease and swell at the same time. Feyre noticed the shock on their handsome faces just before she observed their smart-looking tunics.

But she had no time to say anything before they both gave her a small bow.

"Please, none of that. We're family, remember?" Feyre dismissed with the wave of her hand. But she still felt her eyes become rather misty as she beheld the two males, realizing how much she had missed them both.

Azriel nodded, seeming to read as much in her eyes. "You look exactly as I remember," was all he said, the spy master's shadows on full display as he surveyed her new Fae form with a rare transparent happiness.

Cassian did the same, mockingly placing a finger to his chin to say, "I agree. Although perhaps not so toned. When this is over, your training starts again." That earned a huge huff from Azriel. But Feyre was thankful for his teasing as she hugged them both. "Thank you both. For whatever you had to do for Rhysand and I. We love you all so much."

When she pulled back, Cassian seemed to puff out his chest a bit as he murmured he loved Feyre too. Azriel was rubbing the back of his neck when he changed the subject, "Should we get going?"

She nodded, but Feyre's stomach fluttered at the question. But she wasn't nervous in the typical way a bride was right before her wedding. No, not at all. Feyre was only anxious to renew her vows to her mate.

And become Rhysand's wife again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The walk to the ceremony was a blur. Traversing through the lower cobble stone streets of the river district, Cassian and Azriel spent most the time in silence, letting Feyre absorb the city around her. And somehow though nothing had changed, Velaris was even more spectacular than she remembered.

The lower part of town had been cleared of all citizens. Perhaps by Rhysand himself, so Feyre could view the city with no distractions. It seemed her mate always thought of everything.

Cassian was holding her train as not to let it drag while Azriel held her tiny bouquet of Night Court flowers so she could wrap her hands around both their elbows.

And even if they were acting more like bridesmaids than escorts, Feyre could practically feel the pride ebbing off of them in waves.

But it was when they reached the part of the river walk that Feyre knew deep in her marrow, did the males pause.

Her eyes were already blurry as she looked to the expanse of colorful art shops, their beauty reflecting on the clear river. "The rainbow," she murmured. It was repaired, looking more welcoming than anything ever could.

Feyre didn't have to ask where the ceremony was happening. For she already knew the answer as true as she knew her mate that would be waiting for her on the other side.

So she did nothing but silently take her train from Cassian, and bouquet Azriel as she faced the wooden bridge that would lead Feyre to her destiny.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Here. A wedding gift."

Feyre looked to the black bag, peering inside to see something that made her heart rush and slow at the same time. "Rhys, you've already done too much," her eyes narrowed, even if a smile was budding on her lips, "With the gallery and the wedding and our honeymoon. No more; its too much."

He keely ignored her words, instead, Rhys reached over to where Feyre sat on the edge of the bed. "Fine, I'll open it for you." Pulling out a folded garment wrapped in tissue, the white paper did nothing to conceal the blood red lace that lay beneath. "I think you'll like this one." He smirked while finally revealing the gift with one hand before laying the delicate bodice in Feyre's lap.

And waited.

"I thought it was a dream," she whispered, in awe of the red lace as she took it in her hands. It was the identical lingerie set that she had tried on for Rhysand in the south just after the riot. Only to wake to discover Feyre had dreamt it all.

"How did you know?" She turned on her mate with clear shock. His violet eyes shining impossibly bright as he lay back on the bed. But the smirk on his lips told her enough.

"That particular memory has always been a keepsake of mine," he finally answered, propped his head up with his hand. Merely letting Feyre admire the gift.

They had only just settled from their honey moon. Spent on their private island. And now she and Rhys were staying in an apartment above Feyre's art gallery. The very art studio that had also starred in her dream while in the south. It turned out Rhysand had replicated it, turning it into the venue of their very private vow renewal last month.

That had been the final surprise as Feyre walked down the aisle in the gallery. She remembered how the walls had been decorated with her paintings, new and old. And waiting at the end of that aisle had been her mate.

Always waiting through the centuries for Feyre to return to him.

"Did I dream it on my own, or did you put in in my head?" Pointing a stern look his way, Feyre couldn't help but survey his lean, muscular body. Rhysand merely shrugged.

"The riot had rattled you, and I wanted to ease that stress in somehow. What better way than to review some of our rather…intimate history."

"And like then, I suppose you want a show? Some wedding gift, I have to do all the work."

Rhys perked up immediately as he edged to where she sat. "And what kind of work are you insinuated, Feyre darling?"

She peered over her shoulder to watch his eyes darken, his voice dripping with lust.

But Feyre pushed on, "First of all, I have to change into it. And if you remember correctly, this set wasn't so easy to put on."

She swore she heard his vibration of a purr from behind her, the low sound making a shiver run down Feyre's spine.

"What if I promised to do all the heavy lifting?" A light hand on her shoulder, pushing away her hair to reveal the open back of her sleep sweater.

Feyre couldn't help but shudder out a breath, her head lolling to the side as his palm and fingers continued to skitter along the sensitive skin of her neck, her back. But she was not done.

"Are you calling me fat?" Feyre turned with upturned brows, finding her mate's brows lowered, the violet of his eyed ebbing closer to black. His expression alone told her he was not amused by her joke.

"What I'm _saying_ ," he growled, planting his lips to the side of her neck, "Is that I would be more than happy to help you put it on."

Feyre opened her mouth to answer. But Rhysand halted all hope of speech when she felt him slide up behind her. His front now flush to her back, she felt the muscles of his thighs encompass her own. And when she felt a certain harness pressing just above her ass, she dropped the lingerie.

"What do you say, mate?" His lips whispered along her jaw, his hands encircling her torso as Feyre practically melted into him.

"I say—" she moaned when he moved to the shell of her ear, taking it gently between his teeth. "—I dare you to undress me first. You won't make it long after." She knew once naked, Rhys would never be able to dress her again, even if it was lingerie. It would be discarded immediately.

But he merely hummed his reply, his hot breath washing the skin of her ear, "Who said I had to undress you first?" Suddenly Feyre felt the air turn cool, her breasts perking to the sudden rush of air. And when she looked down, she saw herself no longer in her sleep sweater and shorts.

But red lace.

Magic.

"Not fair," she said as Rhysand's loud laughter sounded at outsmarting her dare. She turned with a scowl. But his eyes only dropped to where her breasts fell heavy. Then lower to where just seconds ago, her core was wetting with the idea of her mate undressing, then dressing her again. "You ruined it."

He cocked his head. "How so."

"It was supposed to be a test of restraint. And you were going to be rewarded for doing so."

His smiling eyes went wide at her words, his entire body going to still as he snarled, actually _snarled_ at Feyre's now serpentine smile. Her skin pricked from the sound.

"You don't want to tease me, Feyre darling." His thumb whispered along the trim of her lace underthings, "You might regret it later."

Feyre stood from his threat, shrugging as she reached for her sweater his magic had left in a heap at her feet. "I don't think so. But Mor said there was business in the south anyways. So it's good we're getting an early start. Fancy to fly me there?"

Rhys shook his head, still trying to clear his head from Feyre's restraint. It was out of character to say the least, to not jump his bones whenever she could.

But what Feyre had in mind for payment of Rhysand's little threat, would increase tenfold if she made him wait for it.

So Feyre merely watched her mate roll out of bed, wiping a rough hand down his face to curb his desire.

"From what Cassian tells me of your recent training, you can fly yourself. Or winnow for that matter."

She quirked a brow. "Pity we can't fly together. Cassian was telling me something Illyrian mates once did in the air."

"And what was that."

"He called it flight claiming."

Feyre watched her mate's eyes snap open. Then narrow. "And why, pray tell—" Rhys said through clenched teeth, drawing so close she had to raise her chin to face him, "—was Cassian talking to my mate about flight claiming?"

Feyre couldn't scorn Rhys for his possessive response. She more felt than saw the lethal rage fill his eyes. His magic quaked along her own, causing her center turn uncomfortably tight.

"Don't be a brute," she said instead, "I was only curious why it was disbanded."

"Let's say it was a bit reckless."

"I can see why." She turned with a smirk, closing her pack from what she needed for the day.

"I hope you're not suggesting it."

Feyre feigned nonchalance as she pretended to look for her second fighting leather cuff. But she just wanted Rhys to stew in some of his own medicine. Either way, the question of whether Rhys knew of the ritual or not had been answered. Although Feyre should have warned Cassian before doing so.

For what Feyre had been hinting to, was a long-since banned dance between male and females Illyrians. Revealed to her when Cassian had been absolutely drunk, whining over how Nesta still ignored his every attempt of courting.

Both she and Cassian had been enjoying some of Rhysand's finer wine collection at the time, when the Illyrian commander suddenly starting talking of a long- buried ritual. Feyre's ears had perked immediately. A mating ritual she hadn't heard of.

And now the reason Rhysand's eyes were ebbing closer to shadow than violet was because the act Cassian had spoken of, was a raw, sexual claiming that happened mid-flight.

Practiced during a time when Illyrian female's wings were not clipped, but kept like their male counterparts. Practiced a millennium ago when the tribe was new and not filled with contempt to their female's flying.

"Perhaps," she finally answered. Rhysand only shook his head.

"You would do well to not to romanticize it," he warned sternly, "Flight claiming was outlawed for a reason, Feyre. It was dangerous and usually resulted in injury, or sometimes death. And now you're tempting me to risk it?"

"Sounds fun to me," Feyre chuckled. But when she turned, Rhysand's nostrils were flaring. And she realized, curiosity or no, it was an idiot move to have included Cassian in her inquiry.

"Feyre—" Rhys started.

"—Fine. I'll forget about it. But don't blame Cassian for telling me, alright?" she dismissed, stuffing her fighting leathers into a pack, "I was the one who had asked. You never tell me about Illyrian history and I was curious is all."

He stepped forward, "I don't tell you because some of the things we did are not worth telling."

Feyre faced him, finally changing the subject. "So will I see you at dinner?" He nodded curtly before giving her a chaste kiss to the lips. But when she pulled back, Feyre found his eyes distant.

"Hey," She snagged his chin, forcing that violet gaze to her. "Forget the flight claiming. I was only trying to get a rise out of you. Next time don't be so smart and use your magic when you know I want the real thing."

Her mate's smile turned devious, seeming to snap himself out of the trance. "Next time I undress you. It'll be with my teeth."

Feyre's mouth went dry at his words, while something deep in her core turned wet. "Stop that, or we'll never be able to get work done today."

His chuckle brushed along her core, before Rhys plopped a kiss on her cheek, "See you at dinner, Feyre darling. And please don't seduce some poor Illyrian trainee into the air while I'm gone." And with that, he winnowed out of the apartment.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"It seems you and Rhysand have picked up right where you left off."

Feyre paused, looking to Mor with risen brows as they left the southern castle. She and Mor had winnowed to the south, their last order of business was appointing their most trusted Lord to lead until an election was arranged.

The new form of government would vote in a new Lord every four years, only answering to Rhysand and Feyre, and acting as a representative to speak in the southern people's interest.

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No, not at all," Mor shrugged, tugging closer the pack of jewels and dresses she hadn't had time to take before meeting Feyre and Rhysand in the north.

For some reason, the princess didn't trust the many manservants to take care of the bag. As they followed both of them to the ship where it would take the last of their things home.

To the real Night Court.

"I'm happy for you," Mor said, watching the carts be boarded onto the ship. "I don't think Rhys could survive starting over again."

"I know what you mean. The second I feel him finally settling in, or becoming happy again, he retreats. I don't know how to help him get past it."

Mor nodded before turning away when the last pack was stowed away. Feyre blinked as they watched the ship pull up the deck. Quite the symbolism as they both said goodbye to the continent that had been the source of the King's demise. And perhaps the people that had kept Rhysand sane through it all.

"I suggest you ask him about it at dinner when we get back." Mor's face was uncharacteristically solemn as she clutched Feyre hand in preparation to winnow. "Whatever it is, I have a feeling only you will be the one able to help him face it."

Feyre was unable to answer the solemn look in Mor's eyes, unable to place the sadness there. And then it was too late as they spun into nothingness.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"How was your day?" Rhys murmured into her ear. They were at dinner, and Feyre was watching as Cassian and Mor argued over some point or another. Azriel was speaking softly to Elain as she gave him a soft smile in return. Amren was keeping her eyes to where Nesta sat rigid, her eldest sister keeping quiet as she rose a spoon of soup to her lips. But Feyre couldn't complain. She was grateful Nesta had come at all.

"The southern continent was surprisingly welcoming." Feyre answered, keeping her eyes to her stern sister. Maybe Nesta would come around like Elain had. Everyone, including Feyre had tried to give her sister space these past weeks. But the eldest had been firm.

She wanted to keep her issues with the King, and with becoming Fae, private. Much to Cassian's chagrin.

"Is that so?" Rhys breath coated the side of her face, bringing her back to the present. His hand had been resting on her knee ever since the second course, and it had been rising a bit with the question.

Feyre settled her own palm on his, hoping to clear the lust in her head. She had a plan, "They loved Mor as usual. Me on the other hand, well, everyone was a bit wary."

"Any news of Tamlin?" Was his next careful question. One that made Feyre face him, trying to read the underlying meaning in his sharp features.

"No. Any talk of him in your dealings up here?"

Rhys shook his head. "No one in the old spring Court, or what's left of it, has even murmured a thing. I'm afraid to think he's already fled away from both continents. Perhaps to the other side of the world."

Feyre hummed at that, her meal suddenly turning leaden in her stomach. "We'll just have to keep trying." The words were supposed to sound hopeful, but they fell dreadfully flat as soon as they came out of her mouth.

"Hey," Rhys suddenly squeezed her hand, turning it over to trace the line of her palms. "He'll be held accountable in one way or another. Even if it's by his own conscience."

"I'm not worried about that. I'm worried about you."

His head cocked as Feyre spared a glance to the rest of the table. Everyone was mostly keeping to their own conversations, but she saw how Mor's eyes flitted to her and Rhys every so often.

Feyre swallowed before continuing, "I'm worried not for myself, but that Tamlin is keeping you from being happy, Rhys."

A curt laugh. "You think I'm concerned about the once High Lord of the Spring Court living some retched life filled with nothing but regret?"

Feyre waited, until Rhysand dropped his head in defeat. "He can rot for an eternity for all I care. But What I can't forget is every time I wake up to see your face, or hear you laugh, or feel you along our bond, I am reminded when I failed you on that battle field."

She blinked at the words, and as soon as they sunk in, Feyre felt her heart clench. "Rhys—"

"I know, it wasn't my fault." He went on, "I know we're supposed to have moved past it. But it's all I see when I go to sleep, all I think of when you leave for some business or another. I am revisited by the moment you gave yourself to the King. I am haunted by your sacrifice. Because it should have been me."

"What can I do." Her words were choked as she kept her eyes on him. "I want to help you move past this," she pled. Rhys did not face her.

"Just let me work through it in my own time." He sucked in a breath, taking a long sip of wine as he put on a fake smile. Rhys glanced at her sidelong with a wink, "Don't worry about me, Feyre darling. I always come out okay."

She pressed her lips together at his lightened tone, turning back to the dinner. If her sisters, or anyone else in the inner court had heard Rhysand's words, they didn't show it.

But Feyre couldn't hide her own grief as they finished the rest of her meal in silence.

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"Can we train somewhere else today?" Feyre asked while tightening her fighting leathers. Cassian stood, huffing out a breath as he tucked in his wings tight. Feyre mirrored the movement with her own, and surprisingly didn't feel her back muscles scream in dispute.

She smiled to herself.

"Where do you suggest?" he asked. Feyre glanced around to the snow-covered practice field just next to the house of wind. It was one of the best places to practice flying and fighting. And she and the Illyrian commander had been practicing for weeks.

When Feyre wasn't carrying out High Lady duties' or tangling with Rhys whenever they could get a chance, she was outside with Cassian or sometimes Azriel.

Each male had their own unique training and experience, and Feyre chose to use both to her advantage. Until she could hone her magic and body enough to make Rhys see she was unchanged by the King's tricks.

Perhaps even forged stronger for it.

But since Feyre yet had the skill to winnow, she knew only of one person who would agree to do what she was about to ask.

"I want to see the war field."

Cassian's face went stark white. Moment passed without his answer, and Feyre thought he had went into shock. But finally, he blinked. "Rhysand would kill me."

"Leave me to deal with that. But I want to see it, Cas. I need to." Feyre crossed his arms when he had yet to answer. "If you won't do it, then I'll just have to fly there myself." Turning skywards, she opened her wings to the wing and bent her knees.

"Wait!" Cassian yelled.

Feyre paused, looking to where the commander swept a ragged hand along his face.

"I hope you know a good excuse when Rhys finds out about this. Because make no mistake Feyre, he will."

"I didn't know I had to answer to him," she returned, "What's so bad about a field anyways."

Cassian wordlessly came to her side, tugging her against him in a movement she knew all too well. Feyre remembered a time long ago when she had been mad at Rhys, and requested she fly with the Illyrian commander instead. Such a time felt like an eternity ago.

And perhaps it was.

"It brings ill memories for all of us." Was his simple response, and Feyre felt a wave of guilt wash over her for blackmailing Cassian into something that perhaps hurt him as much as it hurt Rhys.

"We don't have to. I can find a better way." Feyre made a move to step out of his arm, but he held fast.

"No," he said firmly, "Perhaps it's time we all face the darkness."

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They hit ground with a whoosh of wind. Feyre glanced to the male behind her, his face filled with a taut emotion that made her own stomach clench.

But she still managed to face what, to most, would look like nothing more than an empty field. It was huge, rolling hills that was only interrupted by the surrounding forest. But despite the quietness of the meadow, Feyre felt what had happened there.

Memories or no, the irking emotion seemed to echo through every sapling; every blade of grass that whispered with the breeze.

Devastating loss.

But Feyre was not the only one to have risked it all that day.

That same feeling spun along her blood as she glancing beneath her feet. To where Feyre sensed bodies that had been lost to the age of time. Bones of Fae and human alike that had not been recovered or identified in the aftermath.

As she stepped from the shade of trees to see the expanse better, Cassian right at her heels, she finally understood why Rhysand could not forget this place; why her dreams were sound and his restless.

Her mate had made sure Feyre would never remember it. Even now, when all her memories had come back, the emotions attached to each were distant; cut off like a severed limb.

"Where did it happen?" was her first question. Whatever Cassian was reliving behind her, the Illyrian knew what Feyre was asking instantly.

"Right over that ridge." She followed to where his finger pointed. Cassian's wings trembled with a sweeping gust of wind, one that made Feyre look, not to where the King once stood, but where she had said goodbye to her mate.

"The land marks that I remembered are all gone."

Cassian nodded. "After it…happened, Rhys wiped everything out. As both respect for the dead, and as a way to cope."

Feyre swallowed the heavy explanation, her attention never leaving the little slip of valley where it occurred. It was if every part of her zeroed in at that very point. Where she gave it all up for her mate.

"Do you want to go any closer?"

Feyre only then realized that they had yet stepped from the cover of shaded woods. The actual field that was open to the sun had yet to be confronted.

But she had no time to answer before the ground shook with his impact, the very leaves on the giant redwoods murmuring at his arrival. As Rhysand slowly stood to his full height and glared at her with unmistakable fire.

Feyre stood her ground, even if Cassian wavered slightly. Rhysand didn't speak a word as he stomped to where she and the Illyrian commander stood at the edge of trees.

"Rhys—" Cassian started, but with one hard look, the High Lord silenced any excuse.

"Leave us."

Cassian shot Feyre an apologetic look, but she knew as well as him that no solid order from his High Lord could be refused. It was something Rhys rarely gave, and a trick that could be used on everyone but her.

Only Feyre, High Lady of the Night Court could remain unyielding.

But she still raised her in silent courage chin when those violet eyes turned back to her. "I told you not to blame Cassian," she said, "I wanted to see it for myself, and he didn't want me to go alone."

"And now that you've seen it, are you satisfied?"

"Not until you face it with me."

His jaw feathered at her words, but he did not glace to what was behind her shoulders, or to what was whispering in the wind even as it fluttered his blue-black hair.

"We're going home right now."

"No, we're not." Feyre opened her wings with a snap. Flared, she almost toppled over the wind at her back was so strong. But her feet remained planted into the ground as Rhys attention burnt at the order.

"I won't force you, only ask again."

"Sounds like something the King would have said," she returned, taking a step towards the sunlight. Rhysand's growl seemed to make every living thing cower in their own fear. But Feyre was not afraid. Never of him.

This sort of tough love was something she was not used to turning on him. Rhys however, had taken his fair share of nabs at Feyre when he thought her taking the easy way out. He had done it with the bone carver, the weaver. Always there to challenge her, force her to crawl out of her despair inch by desperate inch toward the light.

And so she would do the same to him.

"I am not the King." His voice shuddered the air around them. The wind paused in recognition, nearly choking out her own breath. But Feyre kept moving backwards, keeping her wings spread to block his view of the field behind her.

"You're right, you're not the King," she eased, her tone moving softer the closer he came. "You never used me, Rhys. You never tricked me like he did. You did nothing but love me. And that day, I told you to let me do the same. To trust me to help our people." Feyre squinted when her next move allowed the sun hit her face. "So trust me now."

The wind was an unmovable force as she nearly lost her footing. But Rhysand was almost out of the forest, his eyes locked onto hers in pure surrender.

"Don't make me go out there." He stopped just where the pine floor met the sea of moving grass. "Don't make me relive it."

Feyre's knees wobbled at the fear in expression; the utter emotion as he barely choked out the words. But his weight hovered, as if his magic was forcing him forward.

Forcing him to her.

"I'll help you. Just like you were there to help me." Feyre held out her hand, and his eyes went to the gesture. As if it was a lifeline itself, a connection to all the instances her mate pulled her towards the light. Through Rhysand's own breed of darkness, Feyre had learned to enjoy the sun again.

And her soul cheered when her mate followed Feyre, and finally stepped into the light.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It either took moments or hours for her and Rhysand to walk the expanse of the field. Which was spent in utter silence.

Sometimes her mate's chest would still, and Feyre would squeeze his hand in quiet comfort. And they would move on, Rhysand either sharing what had happened to make him pause, or choosing to keep it to himself. Whatever his choice, she didn't push it.

"You know," Rhys finally said, pausing in the middle of the great meadow. The wind had died down, and Feyre's legs ached with the effort it had taken to trek through the tall grass. "I have done this before, you know. Only then, it was just after the war with Victoria." He sucked in a breath before continuing, "I was turning over Illyrian body after body, just praying to whatever Gods still remained, that Cassian and Azriel would never be one of them. It was one of the most retched things I've ever experienced; waiting to find one of your brothers, dead."

"I never knew." Feyre faced him just as his head lowered. "Cassian told me you wiped out everything after I left."

He nodded, his face drawn into something close to agony, and suddenly Feyre regretted it all.

She thought he had made huge strides. Rhysand was now facing the thing he feared most, hopefully confronting all the guilt and shame that was attached.

But perhaps not.

"I'm sorry I asked." Feyre started for the tree line, but a hand caught her wrist.

"No, stay." He tugged her to him, and Feyre softened when their bodies melded. Shivering against his warmth, she let herself hold him. His wings raised so she could knot her hands at his back as Rhys braced them against the chill of wind.

And they stood there, on that once battle field together. Memorizing the feel of each breath, each sigh. Perhaps letting each take whatever strength they needed from the other.

It was Rhys that peeled himself away, a move that made Feyre pout in disappointment. She missed his heat, the feeling of his corded arms and silky wings encompassing her in Feyre's personal blanket. But the sudden wetness in his eyes made every thought vanish.

"Thank you, Feyre." Rhys whispered after a very long survey of her. She let him, unblinking as Feyre nodded. "Now what would you have in return?"

"Nothing, Rhys. Not everything has to be repaid, you know. Besides, if we're comparing what one mate has done for the other, I would come out loosing."

"I would disagree." Rhys's eyes turned hungry on her. "You've already blessed me by agreeing to become my mate. As well as my wife and High Lady. So what do you say, I finally grant you a request of your own?"

Feyre leaned back in his arms. "What are you suggesting."

Rhys grinned before launching them into the air.

She silenced her scream when she realized her mate had un-cinched his arm from her waist, creating a free fall effect as her wings spread on instinct. The sky spread out before them as she clenched her teeth at the impact. And looking down, she blinked to see the field hundreds of feet below.

Once she recovered her bearings, Feyre glanced around the open air to search for Rhysand. But he was nowhere to be found as she spun to look upwards.

Her wings groaned in response as she banked downwards. A move that Feyre regretted as she caught a warm air patch that sent her even higher.

Effortlessly so as she felt the clouds had created a blanket beneath her, skewing and vision of the ground below. And then she felt a familiar presence beside her.

"You couldn't have warned me?" Feyre yelled over the wind, only to find that in their little pocket high above was utterly silent. Rhysand's eyes seemed to laugh in response.

"I wanted to make sure you were fit enough for what was about to come. And you are. Exceedingly so."

Feyre narrowed her eyes at his words. Acutely aware when her mate's wing brushed her own. It sent a shockwave of arousal straight to her core. So thick that she had to blink back into present and remind herself they were thousands of feet in the sky.

Rhysand just quirked a perfect brow, "Care for a dance, Feyre darling?"

She eyed the ever-decreasing space between them as they drifted effortlessly. "Promise you won't let me fall?"

Her mate winked before clutching Feyre into the safety of his arms. Their wings brushed with each upwards flap into the heavens. She swore his brushed hers longer with each inch of elevation they gained.

Rhys gave his answer against her parted lips, "Only if you make me roar loud enough, Feyre darling."

She smiled at his challenge, wrapping her arms tighter against the whipping wind, the untamable, utterly wild force that was her mate.

Then she became nothing but his.

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 **A/N That's the end! Thank you so much for all the support with this one, it was a lot of fun. I hope to start another Feysand fic, completely new, in a few months. Thank you again :)**


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